


desire

by Lilaciliraya



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Agent As Unsub, Altered Mental States, Blood, Captivity, Dark, Episode: s02e11 Sex Birth Death, Episode: s02e15 Revelations, Episode: s03e16 Elephant's Memory, Hallucinations, Hurt Spencer, Hurt Spencer Reid, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, M/M, MY WEAKNESS, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Second Person, POV Spencer Reid, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault, Spencer Reid Whump, Torture, Vomiting, What Have I Done, a lot more references, gideon isn't really an agent anymore, i dont know whats going to happen, kind of, that one's nathan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:42:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilaciliraya/pseuds/Lilaciliraya
Summary: The one thing you do know is that something is very, very wrong.





	1. tear into your soul

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by how do you want me but with criminal minds and my unintelligible writing

You process that you’re awake slowly. First, you realize that time is passing because there’s a pressure on your chest that’s coming and going in a recognizable pattern. You are breathing. And you’ve learned that that means time must also be happening so that all of your breaths aren’t coming at once. 

 

Except, you know that you already knew that. So you try to shake your head clear and reevaluate. You are awake and you are breathing. Those are all good signs. But why wouldn’t you be? You try to think, try to think, try to think. 

 

You process, too slowly, you acknowledge, that your head shake didn’t really happen. You try to move again. Your body is stiff. You aren’t sure if you’ve actually moved. 

 

Actually, you aren’t really sure where your body is at all.

 

You hear a sound and suddenly you remember hearing that sound over and over and over again, and you get this paranoid thought that time has been repeating. Is this all really happening or are you stuck in one moment?

 

Everything around you is warped. 

 

Somehow you opened your eyes but you don’t remember when. You know something isn’t right and you also know that your thoughts should be knitting together better than they are so you decide not to let anything in. 

 

You block out your senses and you refuse to acknowledge anything because the one thing you do know is that something is very, very wrong.

 

You come to again, some time later, and you are suddenly aware, with absolute certainty, that you were experiencing the world wrong the last time you opened your eyes. But for a second you think you’re back to normal. 

 

You only just have time to file this thought away before a sound triggers something in the back of your mind and the rest of your thoughts ripple away with the blurs in your eyes and the past catches up to the future and all the times you heard this sound are now, and time isn’t working right again, and you know something is very, very wrong. 

 

It’s the only time in your life you can remember that you’ve had absolutely no idea what to do, but even though you don’t know what to do you know that you can block it all out. If you don’t do anything at all you can’t do anything wrong.

 

You hear the noise again and you’re pulled out of the rolling blackness to register the words, “Spencer Reid,” and you want to laugh because you know what’s coming next, just like the last hundred times you lived this moment, because time is bending and looping and carrying you around it and you’ve lived this moment so many times and something is very, very wrong. “I’m glad we’re finally together again.” 

 

All you know is that something is wrong and you aren’t working correctly right now, so you close your eyes and you try to block it out. While your eyes are closed you have a moment of clarity where you think you should say something, anything.

 

But if you’re wrong you could make everything worse, and besides, this is one moment repeating over and over again and you aren’t sure yet if the real moment is here or there or where it was or where it will be so you close your eyes and pretend that if you don’t acknowledge any of this you won’t be making it worse.

 

Your eyes are open and someone is there. You don’t remember opening them, and you aren’t sure how long they’ve been open but when you shake your head the whole scene shifts about three seconds too slow. 

 

You suddenly remember the moment in time that happened what feels like hours ago, when you decided to shake your head to clear it and nothing moved, and think about how time is looping and repeating and taking you with it and you remember how you don’t remember deciding to move it now. 

 

You hear a breath and remember the someone that was there. Where, you don’t know, but that reminds you that you were taking stock of your situation. That was stopped when you realized how it didn’t work and how something is wrong, very, very wrong. 

 

So you close your eyes and pretend this isn’t happening, pretend that if you ignore it you’ll get that clarity back, because you also remember that somewhere in this great spiral of time you’d been sure you were lucid again. If you don’t do anything you can’t make it worse.

 

But then you laugh because you know what’s going to happen. You open your mouth and say it with him, that someone who was there in front of you, who is, who will be, the one who’s been making that same noise for the past hours upon hours that you’ve been here. 

 

“Spencer Reid, I’m glad,” you get out. Then you take a break because you can’t stop yourself from laughing, because you know what he’s going to say and everything is wrong and the breaths that you’re taking are telling you that time is happening but the fact that the breaths aren’t all coming at once doesn’t mean that everything else isn’t. How else would you know what the someone in front of you is going to say?

 

“We’re finally together again,” you finish, but then your eyes are open and you’re back at the beginning again because you don’t remember how your eyelids pulled apart. 

 

When you shake your head everything moves with you but it’s three seconds too slow, and when you register the presence in front of you you focus with everything you have. You pretend like nothing is happening even though you have a sudden rush of lucidity, because if you don’t do anything you can’t do anything wrong, and something is already very, very wrong. 

 

Your eyes are closed and your ears aren’t listening and your body is disconnected. You aren’t going to let time trick you again.

 

It’s all been looping and repeating and trying to carry you with it but you’ll take stock. You’re “Spencer Reid,” and you’re from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, and, and, and someone just said your name out loud, so you open your eyes and time all slams back together.

 

“I’m glad we’re finally together again,” the figure says as you snap your head up and meet his eyes.

 

\----------

 

You’re Spencer Reid and you’re from the Behavioral Analysis unit of the FBI. You’ve been drugged and kidnapped. You have no idea what has happened between your drive to the station and now, and the sluggishness and disorientation you still feel are pointing towards a ketamine injection. 

 

You don’t seem to have any serious injuries, but if the unsub did use ketamine you are probably still under it’s influence and are therefore unreliable in recognizing your own pain. While focusing on your body you realize that something does feel wrong but it’s just slightly and it’s all over. 

 

Your eyes flick down and, yes, you’re naked. You also note that your hands are restrained over your head and your feet are bare against the floor. 

 

The room you are in is dark and cold and built out of cement that seems to be characteristically damp. It must be a basement somewhere, but you get nothing further from the limited view you have and file the thought away. You start back from the beginning.

 

You are Spencer Reid from the Behavioral Analysis unit of the FBI. You’ve been drugged with ketamine, kidnapped, stripped, and restrained in a basement. You aren’t fully aware of your own body and surroundings, and should use all your focus to remain connected to your body. 

 

There is someone in here with you, and he obviously knows who you are. He is male, approximately 6 feet tall, average weight as far as the loose hoodie shows. He has graying brown hair, a beard, and- that voice. 

 

No. No, no, no. You have to think logically. Ketamine can cause hallucinations, you know this.

 

You don’t let yourself think about the other side effects. You need to focus. You were on a case. Your whole team was on a case.

 

You are Spencer Reid from the Behavioral Analysis unit of the FBI. You were working a case with your team when you were kidnapped, drugged, and restrained in a basement. You were taken from California, where an unsub was killing women randomly, shooting them in the chest and leaving like they meant nothing. 

 

There were absolutely no leads, no evidence; the local police department was baffled. You hadn’t been able to figure out why the unsub was killing people with no obvious motive, seemingly without the pleasure that most serial killers gain from their actions. 

 

You know the unsub wasn’t using drugs to gain control of his victims, and they were all female. They were all killed immediately, not kidnapped and taken to a second location. You don’t fit the victimology. 

 

You’d say it’s a different unsub but, the voice, it all just- it has to be. Nothing is making sense.

 

You are Spencer Reid, and you were brought into the Behavioral Analysis unit of the FBI by Jason Gideon, who has drugged you with ketamine, kidnapped you, and restrained you naked in a basement. He killed 4 women to draw you out to California.

Jason Gideon. 

 

You wish you were hallucinating. You know you aren’t. 

 

\-----------------------

 

You tug on the chains holding your wrists and take a deep breath. Gideon takes a step towards you. You jerk away and your feet start to slip on the grimy floor; you catch yourself with your arms when they tighten their grip on the cold metal instinctively. 

 

Your eyes never leave the man in front of you. He seems to be waiting for something. “Gideon,” you give him, your voice too weak for your liking even as you coat it in false bravado. 

 

Your tongue feels too heavy so you decide to save the banter for later. You know you’ll be here for a while anyways, after all the trouble he went through to bring you here in the first place. “Why are we here?” you ask, straight to the point. 

 

You wonder why father figures always have to ruin you.

 

Gideon takes another step, and then another, another, another, until he’s standing so close to you that your shivering frame can steal some warmth from his breath. You’re reminded of your state of dress, and you suddenly feel all of the discomfort that you’d previously been too disoriented to let yourself acknowledge.

 

Your skin feels too tight on your bones and you want to shrink into yourself, but the chains are holding your body taut, your feet barely resting on the floor. You grip the chains even tighter still in your hands. You keep your face level, though, and you let yourself stare into his eyes.

 

He reaches for you, drags his fingers across your stomach, low. So gently you almost don’t notice, catching slightly on your hip.

 

What you do notice is that you are cold. Cold all the way through. And when the warmth of your former mentor’s skin melts into yours you almost welcome it. Until you process the situation again and suddenly you’re being sick onto the floor.

 

You have no idea what’s happening, and the endless loop of time doesn’t seem so bad anymore, you almost wish it would return and leave this as a single moment imagined in time that doesn’t quite exist.

 

It’s not going to happen. You’re cold. You didn’t feel anything before. Your senses are returning. And Gideon is so, so warm and so wrong.

 

Something is very, very wrong.

 

The images that flash across your mind are of Gideon, years ago, when you were back in a cabin with Tobias Hankle and a single bare light bulb, when Gideon’s image covered the screens in front of you and he called you strong.

 

“He cannot break you,” you hear echoing through your mind, and you’re pretty sure it’s all in your head but you can’t be completely certain because you can almost feel the vibrations in your ears. “You are stronger than him; he cannot break you.”

 

You lift your chin as much as you can and close your eyes. This is Gideon, and you can’t quite believe that this is happening.

 

A touch ghosting across your cheek forces you back into the situation. The touch travels from your face to your neck, across your collarbones, up your arms. Then it drags across your shoulder blades, your back, lower, lower. The hands that have covered you settle on your hips. 

 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I don’t want to be here,” you say from years into the past; your parents are fighting. It feels like the dilaudid all over again, the warmth could be coming from that single bare bulb. You’re seeing the past, high on some drug you didn’t want to take.

 

“I don’t want it, I don’t want it, please.” Now you’re waking up in a different past, back in the cabin but for real. You haven’t been meaning to talk out loud but you can’t tell for sure that you aren’t forming the words with your lips, pushing them out of the back of your throat. 

 

Your consciousness is stretching out of your body.

 

“Please, I don’t want it.”

 

The warmth is burning you, all over, moving too fast, reaching too deep. Pushing and pulling and taking you over. 

 

You hear metal hitting metal, a light, innocent sound. You struggle to open your eyes, to connect to the present. When you do you wish you hadn’t. 

 

You see Gideon unhooking his belt, and you remember the fear you felt so long ago when Tobias did the same thing. You remember how that turned out, the long torture of addiction. 

 

Somehow you know this will be worse.

 

You close your eyes again, desperate as time starts melting away, but, no. That’s not what’s happening. Your breaths are happening all at once but time is there, it’s the panic that’s causing this. But having the knowledge doesn’t stop the panic from swelling.

 

The knowledge has never really saved you from anything.

 

You can hear the belt clang one last time and your body jerks. “I don’t want it please, please, I don’t want it.” It helps just about as much as it did in the cabin.

 

The touches start again too rough, too warm. 

 

Your addled brain can only think of that damn light bulb, swinging above you while your life ended.

 

You barely register what happens. The chains loosen; you fall. Your knee twinges. You feel like you just shot up dilaudid. The high is taking over. Warmth is spreading through your veins unwelcomed. Gideon is all over. 

 

You can feel the light above you. Smell the burning fish. That smell makes you sick again. He doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he grabs your chin and eases himself inside your mouth. 

 

You couldn’t really do anything even if you knew what to do. Your breaths are coming all at once, not at all. Time is looping and bending and you’d better just block it all out. Pretend that you can’t sense anything because even though the other ones are still technically functioning the only sense you can understand is the one that says something is very, very wrong. 

 

You thought you were lucid, but you had periods of clarity before and you slipped back into the haze. It was a lie and it’s a lie again. You let it all go black.

 

“You’re so beautiful. The world is all wrong but, Spencer, you’ve always been so beautiful.”

 

No, no, no. You push it away, time is going all wrong and it’s not fun at all anymore, it never was. This is a high you never asked for.

 

You can’t breathe. 

 

“I don’t want it,” you think, but you must have been saying it out loud all along because this time the thought doesn’t happen. You cough and cough and something is there that shouldn’t be.

 

It’s inside you like that needle. The one that just slid itself into your skin and slowly started tearing you apart. It’s all happening again. Time is happening again, everything repeats.

 

Everything always repeats.

 

Your head is spinning.

 

“So beautiful, I couldn’t stay away any longer. I knew you’d be so beautiful.”

 

You focus long enough to process Gideon in front of you, your knees against the cold ground, the hard press of hot flesh against your tongue. Spit is dripping from your lips, hitting the dirty floor like tears, and you are so scared because everything is wrong. 

 

You know the best thing to do right now is to cooperate. He obviously does not want to kill you yet, and you don’t want to aggravate him. You aren’t in any state to try any games either. Even if your mouth was free you are still reeling from the drugs. Your world is shifting around you, bending, as you’ve been telling yourself at the worst moments. 

 

Being forcibly filled up with drugs is not fun, but this time something even worse is happening. You almost can’t even think the word. Rape. Gideon is going to rape you, that’s what this is about.

 

You’re just glad he seems content not to go that far right away. The team will have more time to find you this way. You just need to let him finish. 

 

The dark room fades out around the man in front of you. He is pushing into you hard and fast and you desperately need a breath. 

 

What happened to the man who couldn’t comprehend the evil in the world? Was that really ever the problem? Or was it the evil in himself that he was unable to deal with in the end? You don’t have to think too hard or wait too long for the answer.

 

“I knew, ever since I saw you on that screen, I knew. Knew you’d look so beautiful like this.”

 

Oh, god. You strain your neck against his hands holding your head in place. He pulls your hair. You can’t stop the whine that catches in your throat, and then it’s over. He pushes into you one last time, leaves a little something behind, and pulls out. 

 

Just like Tobias. Just like the dilaudid.

 

You collapse forwards when he steps away, catching yourself just barely with the chains before they start tightening up again, pulling your body upright once more. You can’t help rearrange yourself at all, and your wrists suffer, but you’ll deal with those wounds later. The ketamine is still keeping you blessedly numb. 

 

Gideon rubs his hands over your skin one last time, leaving a kiss on your forehead and breathing out a soft, “so beautiful.” You feel him messing with the shackles on your wrists but you can’t stay awake any longer.

 

You tilt your head back and you swear you see that light bulb. The simple one, bare. It’s swinging just above your head.

 

You’re on your own now.

 

\---------------

 

Your dreams are all wrong and reeling and weaving in and out of darkness. People are hurt and bound and left behind, and these people are you. It’s you, but you’re below you, and someone is hurting you and it’s not real but you know that now it almost is. 

 

There are old monsters and new monsters, and no matter how hard you squeeze your eyes shut the images don’t go away because your eyes are already closed on that body that is yours, so far away, passed out. 

 

There is Nathan and Tobias and Owen, and then there is Adam and Diane. Phillip Dowd is shot in the head, and then Jack, killed, just a kid. There is Nathan Harris with his wrists cut, Amanda with a knife to her throat. Maeve is dead on the floor, framed by two pools of blood. Tobias looks into your eyes, his own wide with surprise. You wake up screaming, without making a sound.

 

You look around when you wake up, and every time you move your head the world shifts accordingly. The drugs have made their way through your system, then. Good. There is a concrete floor, grungy and old. Concrete walls surround you to match. 

 

There is a mattress beneath you, old and thin. A water bottle sits in the corner closest to you. You see a bucket across the room, a locked door down the wall. You really hope he doesn’t intend to keep you here, but every observation is telling you that he very much does.

 

You take a minute to make sense of your situation. And then it all comes flooding back in.

 

You are Spencer Reid. You were drugged, kidnapped, hurt. Your captor is Jason Gideon. He called you beautiful. He wants to keep you, you know he does. He undid your chains after he finished with you and laid you out on this makeshift bed. 

 

Your team should know you are gone, but the previous murders won’t lead them to you and Gideon knows exactly how to manipulate them so that they will never find you.

 

You think that he could even have arranged an ending to this whole ordeal, one where the team seemingly solves the case they came for and has to leave without their co-worker Doctor Reid, leaving you at Gideon’s mercy. 

 

You can’t let yourself think about that for long.

 

You push yourself into a sitting position, looking at the water. You don’t want to risk taking any more drugs, they would only keep you vulnerable. Scooting over into the corner you realize that the bottle is sealed and you could cry with relief, but you’re dehydrated enough as it is. 

 

As you pick up the bottle you realize how sore you are. Hopefully you’ll be out of here soon. That’s all you let yourself think on the subject. Not about how your jaw came to ache, not about the shooting pain in your knee, or the tightness of your shoulders. You do look to your wrists, because you are just now remembering how serious those injuries could be. 

 

They are red and mangled and your arms are coated in dried blood down to the elbow. You know you’ll have scars, but luckily you haven’t and will not likely bleed out. You should still care for them as best you can, however, but you don’t want to waste your water. 

 

Just as you are thinking this, the door creaks open. You consider your options, but decide in the end that it’s best to just sit tight. Gideon knows all of your moves, he taught them to you. It may make him angry if you try any word games. You don’t want to risk souring his mood because you don’t see an ending down that road worth the price you know he’ll demand. 

 

You close your eyes. Take a breath. Finish the water in silence. 

 

Gideon walks up to you, squats down to your level, and exhales your name. “Spencer.” He trails his fingertips down your left arm and pauses just above your wrist. He lifts your hand into his lap and says, “We’d better fix this up before it gets infected.”

 

You control your breathing, let him manipulate your wrists into his working space and clean them out. You don’t even flinch at the burn of alcohol on your wounds. He wraps them up and you wonder what he’s trying to do. 

 

Before you figure it out he’s gone. Nothing makes sense.

 

You’re still exhausted, so as soon as the door shuts you let yourself relax, as much as you can while being held captive. Again. You pull your arms up to cover your face, cuddle down into the mattress, and pass out once more.

 

You dream and you dream and you dream. Of darkness and death and dying. Of blood and pain and cruelty. You dream as you always have. 

 

It ends with a single gunshot ringing in your ears, a beam of light drawing near.

 

\---------


	2. morning after you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long! it's kind of hard to write shitty fan fiction when you're home for winter break literally crying laughing over broken spoons. my family is.... yeah. but alas. classes have started again this week so i wrote more! yay. also we are going to pretend gideon didn't die because this could have been set before season 10 but then i put both of jj's kids in for some reason and i don't want to change it. so. its definitely not canon anyways

 

This time when you wake you are not alone. Gideon is there, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You suck in a breath, freeze, flick your eyes up to his face. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just slides his eyes over your body so aggressively you shiver. The cold rushes back through your veins.

 

Once again you’re struck with the irrational thought that if you refrain from making any moves nothing will happen, but you know what Gideon is capable of doing to you without your consent. You wonder if you’ve been given some sort of drug again.

 

Gideon’s fingers trail down over your lips, the last one settling over the corner of your mouth. You don’t know if you’d rather he keep his interest in your mouth or move on and get it over with.

 

A spider crawling over the concrete floor catches your eye. You follow it desperately, the reality of your situation left floating in the back of your mind. The spider’s leg movements lull you into an easy trance. You aren’t choosing to do nothing, there’s just nothing you can do.

 

Maybe one day you’ll write a paper on spiders. You’re not sure why that would ever make any sense at all, but surely you could. It’s much better to keep your mind on the small creature in front of you, the only living thing in this basement that has a chance.

  


You attempt to move but something stops you, not your mind this time, so you must be bound again. You strain your neck back, whisper through the dryness in your mouth, “Gideon, pl-”

 

Something hits your face, hard. You slam your eyes shut as hard as you can. Do nothing do nothing do nothing. It’s better to not make a move, there’s nothing you can do.

 

“No talking, not unless I say you can, Spencer. Remember that.” And you want to say so much but you know it won’t work and it’s not worth it. You know you’re supposed to play along and wait for someone to save you, but that doesn’t make you feel better. You want to save yourself again, but you can’t; you’re irrationally frozen.

 

Frozen in this basement where you’re being held by Gideon, oh god, he-,  you can’t just- “No,” you almost plead. That isn’t what you wanted to say. You definitely didn’t want to sound so pathetic. You shouldn’t have done that- not worth it- oh god- you retreat into your mind, this isn’t happening.

 

Somewhere far away you hear a crack like a gunshot, and a flash of light pops under your eyelids. You feel a sudden rush of heat on your body. That shouldn’t concern you, you were cold, you remember, or- frozen?

 

You don’t- surely in a cold and damp basement being warm is a good thing.

 

This heat is concentrated and as a spare corner of your mind travels back to your body and down your back you remember the state you were left in. You recognize the feeling of bare skin against bare skin but this time instead of leaving warmth behind Gideon’s hands feel cool against your naked burning flesh.

 

Another crack, another spot of warmth at the top of your thigh. Your eyes dart back to the floor, scan for the spider.

 

You think in your paper you’ll include a battle like the one going on right now, the one exploding inside your head. You stare and you stare and you stare.

 

You can’t remember anything in the world mattering more than this arachnid making its way around a sealed room, you wonder what path it will take, what direction it will turn next. You write algorithms in your head, try to predict the future from the past, try to ignore the fight happening inside your head.

 

The backs of your eyelids show men with guns and blue vests ducking and shooting and protecting each other. They show people falling and bleeding and dying. They show wounds and noises and battles and unsubs getting away.

 

You can’t close your eyes without remembering every shot you’ve ever fired, and the sounds that burst out of your weapon are real and close and hurting.

 

The shots you hear leave a sting on you skin, like the battle is happening now. If you weren’t busy studying the spider you’d want to fight back.

 

It doesn’t make any sense. You are fighting, in your head. Over and over. Even your coherent thoughts are useless without that spider. You push everything else away, refocus your energy.

 

One day you’ll write a paper. For now though, you watch.

 

Only, you can’t focus with the fight so you push even further than last time, you push to expand your field of view. The spider can wait.

 

You’re on your stomach on the mattress, Gideon must have rearranged you. Your clothes have not suddenly returned, not that you expected them too. The heat you felt on your back must have come from Gideon’s palms cracking over your skin again and again. He seems to be working randomly, slapping and then rubbing, pulling, smoothing without thought. One move after another, never stopping, not even a hint of hesitation.

 

You feel a spot of drool under your chin and remember the spider watching you were doing. You figure that’s a yes to the drugs and try to keep your sluggish brain moving. Your arms are bound over the bandages, this time with rope. Your shoulders ache from the position but right now that’s the least of your worries, because you think the pain is actually helping you keep yourself aware. The drugs have to be different than last time, and not as strong at that.

 

You keep your thoughts moving. Your legs are pinned underneath Gideon’s body. You aren’t going anywhere right now, all you can do is get through it. You’re acutely aware of how much pain you’re feeling.

 

The cold of his hands right after the burning heat is the best thing you’re experiencing right now, but you don’t want to admit that, even to yourself.

 

His hands keep moving, pulling. Tearing into you like claws.

 

You clench your jaw when his hands finally stop their pattern of assaulting and soothing. You’re glad that’s over but you’re scared of what it being over means. Of what’s coming next. A tear slips down your cheek, leaving a trail of ice against your flushed skin.

 

You feel like you’ve been ten different people lately, like the endless stream of drugs and trauma are molding you and twisting you up too fast to keep track. Maybe Gideon isn’t even hurting Spencer Reid. Maybe you can no longer be considered those people anymore. You don’t know; you don’t know anything. Knowing wouldn’t save you anyways, the knowledge never does. You’re learning that.

 

Just as you start itching to lock in on the spider again the weight on your thighs shifts and the hands come back. One grips your hair and pulls, letting nails scratch against your scalp, startling you. The other settles over your wrists and the rope binding them, pushes them into the small of your back, stretches your shoulders.

 

The adjustments mold your body, force your back to curve, your hips to lift. You close your eyes. There’s no more pretending.

 

You search for the spider again, desperately, almost hysterically. Quick, quick you don’t have that much time. You stop fighting the drugs, beg to slip back out of the present. It’s coming, oh god, you’re not ready.

 

You count the movements of the arachnid’s legs, one at a time, over and over. Ignore the weight on top of you.

 

You focus back in on your body, feel where he rests against you. There’s cloth, but not a lot. You don’t know if he needs to stop to get anything off. But you hope and hope and hope.

 

The hand holding your wrists too tight drops down, rubs too slow and too soft. Your vision blurs and then rights itself. Maybe it’s already too late.

 

No, no, no. No.

 

You look for the spider, you can’t find it.

 

Your breathing speeds up. Faster, faster, faster.

 

Your shoulders twist, wriggle, jerk. The hand in your hair tightens, yanks your neck back as far as it will go.

 

Your feet kick as hard as they can with a full grown man sitting on top of them. You can’t remember asking them to.

 

Panic is sharp and thick and heavy. Your breaths come faster, faster, all at once. Can time be happening if it isn’t separating events anymore?

 

And then the pressure lifts.

 

There’s nothing.

 

Nobody is touching you at all.

 

Time has happened, but it feels like it has jumped into another stopping point, like it still isn’t happening right now.

 

It’s quiet, like the gunshots have stopped. Like all the fighting is done and now the bodies are just lying motionless on the ground in puddles of blood.

 

Red, red blood.

 

Your eyes are dry, unblinking.

 

It feels like if you move your gaze something very fragile will break. So you don’t move at all.

 

Until suddenly you suck in a breath so sharp it cuts a stream of tears lose in your eyes, breaking the silence like a siren. There is relief, cold, cold relief rushing through you with your blood.

 

Another breath, another. The sounds flood in. You drag your eyes across the floor and spot the spider. It’s legs move in rapid succession. You keep your eyes moving, stopping on the figure standing before you.

 

A lot of time must have passed around you while you were stuck, frozen, because he is holding a paper plate and even if you can’t remember him first coming down here you know it wasn’t down here before. He sets the plate on your mattress, crouches down with it.

 

It’s like he’s still that man you used to look up to. He smiles, it’s- completely normal. He says something, harmless, probably, you don’t even register the meanings of all the pointless words, and he reaches behind you, frowning, his hands resting over the ropes.

 

It’s all so fast, too fast, never ending. Time is too fast, and yet it’s far too slow. You can’t keep track. He’s forcing you to collapse in on yourself, surrounding you, pushing from all sides. Like he’s the bullet and you knew you’d never win.

 

And then he unties you. Props you up against his legs. Lifts the sandwich from the plate to your mouth. Gives you a look like a disapproving father, urging you to eat.

 

You swallow, dry. Open your mouth slowly, avoid his eyes.

 

“Spencer,” you hear, soft, so soft.

 

You take a bite, and then realize how thoroughly exhausted you are, how hungry. Before you realize it the sandwich is gone, and you are still so, so hungry. Gideon smiles, and you can’t tell the difference between this face and his genuine happiness.

 

Your heart beats just a little faster, and yet you can’t look away. He parts his lips, speaks, “You can say thank you now.” And you blink. Try to say it. You aren’t sure if anything makes it past the claws in your throat, but it seems to be enough. He pulls out another sandwich from somewhere behind him and you think you could cry again. He holds this one out to you, lets you eat it yourself, watches.

 

When he stands you collapse again.

 

And then you’re alone. Staring at the ceiling.

 

You see the spider climbing up his web. Everything has been turned upside down.

 

Nothing has changed.

 

Everything is moving. It’s slow.

 

Nothing feels like you.

 

You have no idea how much time passes or how little, but at some point you want a drink of water so you let your head drop to the side.

 

There’s another bottle at the edge of your mattress.

 

It looks really, really good.

 

You watch it for a while, tired. It’s over though, it’s over.

 

This is the point in the battle where the ambulance has disappeared, off to the hospital with everyone who could be saved.

 

Finally there is quiet, just the wreckage left behind.

 

Those who were already too far gone.

 

Peace, because there’s nothing left to do.

 

Day fades into night over the battle site. Your vision blurs out a little, one more time.

 

You realize you’re thirsty.

 

You look up, see water right in front of your face, sitting at the end of the mattress.

 

It looks really, really good.

 

You feel wrong. Nothing even happened.

 

You reach out, hit a bottle of water with your arm.

 

You pick it up, lift it, drink.

 

And then a chunk of your time vanishes to the darkness.

 

\---------

 

There are days and there is Gideon, and there is pain and there is soothing. Sometimes he just takes and sometimes he teaches, and sometimes he’s like his old self again, and that’s almost the worst part. You know what he’s doing but with every passing day there is less you can do to stop it.

 

So you don’t speak because you aren’t allowed, and you sit up at the slightest hint that the door is about to open because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and when he wants you to pretend, you do.

 

You’re staring at a screen, not blinking, waiting for someone to die. You think it’s you this time.

 

Nobody will ever even know what happened. Gideon won’t be caught. Gideon wrote the book on catching serial criminals, literally and metaphorically. Gideon knows other people so well he became one, abandoned the burden that was his own mind by giving in, switching sides.

 

Most of the time now you wake up alone. Alone, alone, alone. You want to be alone because the alternative is Gideon, but on the other hand you don’t really want to be alone, and you want the food and water and warmth you know only Gideon will provide you. Because Gideon is trying to make you depend on him, to crave his presence. He wants you so desperate that you will do absolutely anything for him. You know this.

 

But you also know that that doesn’t mean it won’t work.

 

\-----

  


You wonder what day it is. Wonder what the team is doing, how the case is going. And then a choked sound makes its way out of your throat, because you don’t give a damn about the case anymore, you really don’t. You wonder if they’re gone yet. If you’re here forever, if they’ve given up.

 

You wonder when Gideon is coming back. Wonder how long you’ll make it. You don’t bother moving. Or thinking. You aren’t going to escape because Gideon knows you, better than maybe anyone ever has. So you lay there.

 

It’s funny how you gave up so easily.

 

It’s just, maybe you should get a little break, because he’s taken so much from you already. You aren’t really giving up, you’ll just take a rest. Fighting all the time is so hard, so tiring, you’re exhausted, you’ve been exhausted for years and years and you’ve never had a break. It’s just a rest.

 

“You’re stronger than this. He cannot break you,” echos through the room, or maybe it’s just your head. It doesn’t really matter. You’re alone. For now.

 

There’s a spot on the ceiling that kind of looks like a headstone.

 

There won’t be a team of flashlights searching through the graveyard this time.

 

And then there’s a noise by the door. You don’t move, don’t look. You’re resting. If you look you’ll either have to fight again or give in. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. You  can hear him unlock the door and approach the mattress, approach you. You stay very, very still. Every muscle in your body is tense.

 

He laughs. Your whole body jerks and you squeeze your eyes shut and all the air jumps from your lungs. God, this is Gideon, he knows what you’re doing, he knows, he’ll always know. Still, you don’t look.

 

It’s almost like he can read your mind, though, for real, because when he speaks he tells you, “The team solved the case. Or, somebody is going to prison for the murders they were investigating, at least. Someone who fit the profile just shy enough of perfectly.” You don’t know how you feel about this. You don’t look.

 

“You know, Spencer, it was a pretty long case. They were a little too focused on your case, instead, but Strauss pulled them off of it. It was too personal. They didn’t put up much of a fight after that, though I suppose they were busy enough with the funeral,” your neck twitches. He’s lying. You don’t look. He’s lying. He wants you to give up, to need him. You won’t do it. You won’t. There’s a gun to your forehead but you aren’t going to give up on the team, on yourself.

 

“So many tears, Spencer, and for what? That southern man couldn’t keep it together,” he chuckles and, no, he’s lying. Will? No. You’re staring down the barrel.

 

Click.

 

“But cops, they die heroes. That’s what they’ll tell the kids, at least,” you can’t breathe. You push down the urge to say, ‘no’ because you aren’t allowed to talk, so the word gets caught up in your throat. How would he know about Will and the kids unless- unless he actually went to a funeral.

 

Click.

 

“You know what good that does, of course, you’ve seen too many endings. At least you didn’t have to see this one, Spence,” and you flinch. You don’t look. If-, she’ll never call you that again if-

 

Click.

 

He turns away, but before he moves he pulls something from his pocket and drops it on the ground. You don’t look. You hear him stop by the door, waiting. So you turn your head and-

 

There, laying open on the concrete, is JJ’s badge. There’s a little something red on the corner.

 

Bang.

 

The fourth chamber holds the bullet.

 

You look up.

 

He smiles.

 

\---------

 

So this is how it goes: there are drugs and days and hands and warm and the all consuming cold. But when you are cold he holds you and you steal as much warmth as you can because he always leaves and you can’t remember why.

 

One night, when he’s holding you together from behind, you realize that your limbs are sprawled uselessly across your mattress and you aren’t sure how to fix them.

 

It feels like the edges of your body are someone else’s responsibility, like there is another person attached to you and you are looking at their arms, their twisted legs, their loose fists, limp feet. Then he rolls over you and arranges them just right and everything is easy and calm.

 

And then his hands spread across your body and the warmth rolls over you in waves and then the warmth is inside of you. And it’s not the first time but you have no recollection of when the first time may have been.

 

You just lay on your mattress and notice the way you’re moving, like you’re on the beach and the tide is coming in and each wave is rocking you and then pulling away. Over and over and- it’s like the lightbulb you sometimes see. The one that swings all alone, back and forth and- but you aren’t alone, because sometimes he is there.

 

And he doesn’t want you to think about those things. He doesn’t need you to think anything at all. He will take care of everything for you, he always has.

 

Easy and calm.

 

You don’t remember much but you’re sure of this: he always, always comes back.

 

And no one has ever done that before. You don’t remember who but you remember people leaving and leaving and even though you can’t remember the first time he came back at some point you started thinking it was love.

 

Because you don’t remember much but you know it matters when someone comes back. There are moments in your dreams where you see him so clearly you think there’s no other explanation. And sometimes you can hear him say you’re beautiful, and his voice never, ever says goodbye.

 

Right now you are spread on your mattress and his voice is flowing in your ears like blocks of red red red, and red is love, you know. Your neck is balancing your head on an angle, and your top lip is caught against the mattress. You can feel the threads tugging against your lip, holding it from touching the bottom one, keeping your mouth slightly open, which is good because sometimes breathing is hard to remember.

 

You might be drooling and it kind of feels like your eyes are watering and- there’s a spider, a spider on the wall crawling up up up, away. Why would it want to leave, you wonder, when without him there is cold and nothing? You watch the area where it escaped and you don’t miss a second, your eyes are dry now, unmoving, until a brightness registers in the corner of your vision so intense it almost turns back time.

 

To when you were trapped and scared and hurt. But that’s so far away now. And he doesn’t want you to think about those things.

 

You hear a distant noise, loud and sudden like a gunshot, but not. A shout, from him, perhaps. You don’t know how you know what a gunshot sounds like but- you blink. And blink and- nothing. Cold. He’s gone again.

 

In the darkness you dream of senseless horrors and wonder if that’s where the spider is headed. To places where it isn’t so simple, where bad, bad things happen. And then shapes form in the inky blackness and there’s the spider, and then the spider is killed, shot in the head. It falls and people are watching it but it’s dead.

 

And suddenly everything is consumed by the pool of blood gathering around it’s body so red red red- you dream of monsters. You always dream of monsters.

 

And then you dream of Gideon taking them all away.

  
\-----------


	3. we've become echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be long...
> 
> 1) I'm so sorry that I took so long to update this! The next chapters should go much faster. I won't suddenly update twice a week and finish it in a month but I won't take 6 months again. I hate when other people do that... damn. 
> 
> 2) Yeah um. It took a long time for me to write this so I kind of lost track of where I was going. So... sorry if this is disappointing. 
> 
> 3) I was on a lot of drugs while writing this. I was planning on like... the first couple paragraphs of this being in the story and then for the next big event to happen but that somehow got pushed back to chapter 4 I guess. My mind just did what it wanted. Here's a little irony for you: the point of view of a drugged character was written while sober and every part where Spencer is coherent was written while loopy from surgery and heavy duty painkillers. So uh... if Spencer seems a little too dumb still that'd be my stoned ass's fault. I really don't do well with medication... For some reason I'm really worried about this. Hmm.
> 
> 4) Here we go I guess! Let me know what you think.

You wake and there’s a voice and it rings in your ears like red, red like blood, red like monsters and screams and terror and- red so red red you can’t open your mouth for the fear of choking on all of the blood. The blood like the blood you see every time you look at your own hands- no. Red.

 

Red like rubies, ruby from the Latin word rubens. Red, a word composed of a labiodental approximant, one vowel sound, and an alveolar stop. Red like your arm after the needle- no. No, you think, no drugs. No drugs- your thoughts are less restricted now. Maybe he stopped bothering. The fog is not so much the drugs as your complacency, then. It seems to be just as strong. He- Gideon. You’re- no.

 

Your name is Spencer Reid. You were drugged somehow, and Gideon- maybe he can help you figure it out, he always comes and he always knows what to do, Gideon is so smart, so good, he’s- no. But- no. No, no, no. That’s not right.

 

You shake your head, watch the way everything moves just right.

 

Your name is Spencer Reid. You were kidnapped and drugged. Jason Gideon can help you, he’s an agent, he always saves you- no. No. He left. You’re FBI; you’re good. He’s- no.

 

Thinking is so hard, so slow, it hurts. You could just go to sleep and wait for him to come back. It would be so easy, so safe. Except- in the back of your mind you know that you’re not safe.

 

And you realize that your body is cold, except that’s not quite right. It’s just- it’s not warm. There’s no uplifting warmth buzzing in your skin and that must mean you’re free. To be free now you had to be- you were kidnapped, you know that. But- it was him, he was drugging you and then he wasn’t- because this isn’t that new- and you were still- and- then you just felt warm from the emptiness. You didn’t need the drugs to forget. You just needed him, Gideon. He made everything so easy and calm.

 

Your name is Spencer Reid. Your name is Spencer and Jason Gideon kidnapped you and he’s hurting you and he always comes back, he’ll never leave you alone now, you tricked him into staying- it’s your fault, it’s always your fault, you- no- oh, god.

 

Your name is Spencer Reid from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. You were kidnapped and it’s not your fault. JJ is hurt, dead, maybe, and that’s not your fault either. Jason Gideon hurt her like he hurts you and he’s the one that’s bad. He’s red red red like blood- like the blood that splashes back at him as he tears people apart- he’s the monster.

 

He can’t save you; no one can save you now.

 

Your name is Spencer Reid. You aren’t supposed to know that.

 

You open your eyes and see that you’re in a small closed room. You can remember being brought here if you focus. You can remember a lot if you just focus, but that’s not right. You couldn’t for the longest time because he didn’t want you to, Gideon. He was drugging you, and your heart starts beating faster, faster, faster when you think about it but you can’t allow yourself to do that yet so you take a few deep breaths. Focus- you need to focus.

 

The facts will take a lot longer to sort out if you keep letting them slip from your mind, keep thinking in circles.

 

You were kept drugged for the length of time that you’ve been here, except that now you’re fairly sure that you aren’t under any outside influence, so that means Gideon must have stopped bothering. That could be due to your consistent responses. Maybe he figures you’re beyond repair now, that you won’t be able to pull yourself out of the hell he conditioned you into. Maybe he’s right.

 

But you’re thinking now, really thinking. It has to mean something. You look at your fingers, ask them to move.

 

They do.

 

You suck in a quick breath and let it out slowly, try to counteract the hope growing in your chest so sudden and hot and loud.

 

A small part of you, the part that has watched hundreds of killers evolve, thinks that maybe he got bored of the way you did whatever he wanted. Maybe he wanted to give you a chance, give you a little fight, a little hope, get to tear it all away again. You know if that’s the case you need to keep your awareness hidden. Actually, regardless of the reasoning behind your newfound mental clarity, it needs to remain a secret. You can use this. It might be your only hope. He can’t use it against you if you use it against him in the end. You just need to succeed.

 

You relax your body and return your face to the slack blank look it has come to default to. You can't remember exactly how you were behaving in your drugged state but you know that your body looked something like this, like you look now, splayed mindlessly across your dirty mattress on the cold concrete floor, limp, still, and lifeless. Your body language you can fake. Your mind, well, that's a different story. The panic hasn’t set in yet.

 

It will.

 

\-----------------------------

 

Now that you have a little more freedom to be alert you start analyzing, strategizing, planning. You’re in a small concrete room, four walls, no windows.

 

Think, you have to think. You take a deep breath in, hold it, hold it, and then you let it out, slowly, imagining all traces of fog leaving your head and mixing with the air from your lungs as it streams out of your body. You have think.

 

You must be in a basement. You’ve been here for- actually, you have no idea how long you’ve been here. Fighting the panic back down, you try to remember when you took the initial case, the one that started all of this. It was April. Okay. So if you were here for a few months it should have gotten warmer outside, hot. This is California. Or- it was. You have no idea where Gideon took you. You take a second to close your eyes. You can do this.

 

You haven’t heard any air conditioning running. So regardless of where you are, the temperature is logically consistent with a basement in the summer. If you weren’t underground it would not be this cool. That is, if it is summer. You try to check your hair for a clue, but the length seems to be exactly the same as you remember it. Has he- no, maybe- has Gideon been cutting your hair? Actually, has he been washing your hair?

 

He has, you’re too clean. You close your eyes, try to remember- anything- but you can’t. How has he been washing you, when, where? Come to think of it- you look down at your mattress, to the door, the bucket. You can’t recall a specific memory of leaving the mattress, but you must have. You’ve at least made it to the bucket. The lack of a drain in the floor indicates that you may have even been leaving the room to shower. Good- that’s good! You just have to be conscious when you get out, there must be something you can use outside of this room.

 

You shake your head slightly in disbelief, lie down. You can’t stop your lips from pulling up into a smile. This may be easier than you thought. But no, you stop yourself. This is Gideon. You have to be beyond careful. You know he’s smart.

 

Since he’s no longer drugging you he’ll be watching. You can’t be sure how long you’ve been clean, how long you spent under the haze of simple, easy mindlessness instead, but he would not take a risk like this without watching for signs that you aren’t completely under his control, completely defeated.

 

Cameras- the room. You suck in a harsh breath, trying to keep your features calm. If he’s watching you you’ve given yourself away. If he’s watching you it isn’t safe to even verify that he’s watching you. You close your eyes to stop yourself from searching. You can’t give your only weapon away.

 

Knowledge.

 

It’s always been you and the knowledge, and now here you are, holding on tight to truth as the only thing that can save you. It’s reassuring, in a way, that you have this and not a gun. Knowledge is all you’ve ever really had, the only thing that’s ever truly saved you. You’ll take your chances with it once more. Just one secret- you have to keep this one secret safe. Your name is Spencer Reid, and you have your mind back, you can use the facts. Keep it close, you have to keep your cards close to your chest. You roll over and bury your face into the dirty mattress beneath you, sprawling your limbs as you turn. You can play your part. On the outside, at least. Inside you have to keep watching, waiting, planning.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Part of you, no, most of you, you want to say, knows that Gideon cannot be trusted, that he's hurting you, that he doesn't mean no harm, that what he's doing is bad bad bad. But there does exist a part of you that still loves him, loves the red in his voice like Valentine's and can't see the blood, can't smell the metal, can't feel the drip drip drip of life being pulled from your body. Part of you is blind to the red red red of his existence, and that's a deadly thing to be, here.

 

There's a part of you that truly wants Gideon to be happy. Part of you just knows keeping Gideon happy is best for you, to minimize your suffering.

 

The part of you that's awake, that's aware, that's FBI agent sharp, that part, well, that part of you says to strategize. That part of you screams to hide, to watch, to wait. To shut off your mind and behave like Gideon's good little boy until an opportunity strikes, until your chance for freedom comes, until you find your way out. The part of you that reads criminals like a gossip column demands that you deal in logic, in outcomes, in best possible solutions; this part believes in sacrifice.

 

There's a part of you that doesn’t.

 

You’re sitting on this mattress holding yourself together with nothing but boneless hope and you know he is going to come for you. You’ve been waiting and waiting for the moment that it all becomes real, the fact that you’ll have to deal with being kidnapped all over again. The first time you could escape. This time you know you won’t be able to, this time you’ll have to endure, be fully present. This time you can’t struggle. You aren't sure how you're going to get through this.

 

And then there's a creak from behind the door, and it sounds like an old stair, but if that’s what it is you've never been aware enough to notice it before, and it registers in your mind that Gideon is coming down to see you. And you don't know how long you've had to prepare for this, but it's too soon, always too soon, and you haven't really figured out what to do besides keep your secret, and- and then you think about it- actually acknowledge what he's been doing- what he's about to do- and, oh god. It’s real, it’s all real.

 

Your insides feel like they've shriveled up, so fast that the pain has no choice but to flood in all at once. They've curled together, folded in on themselves and then frozen in their new places, turned to stone. The air in your throat catches, and you're choking, and you want to scream, you want to sob, you want to shake and gasp and feel and- you can’t move.

 

You don’t do anything at all, but there’s this pull in your face that tells you your expression is anything but empty and that’s not right. He is coming and you've never cared before. You can't give away the biggest advantage you've had so far, you can’t, you- you really, really can’t do this but you have to, you have to fool him into thinking everything's the same. You still can’t move. You have to relax, give in, act a bit, sacrifice a little- no- sacrifice a lot. You- oh god. You're running out of time to pull yourself together, but the thought of an incoming threat doesn’t help to stop the panic.

 

So more time drifts by, falling unresisted into the past.

 

You need to breathe breathe breathe but you can't and then there's a sound at the door and. And you break. Just this one time. Let a small piece of yourself pull free. And then you drag in a ragged breath, the air kicking and screaming as it goes down, and you sprawl your limbs again from where they coiled up with tension and send whatever is left of your mind somewhere else. Somewhere far away from here, from this basement in Maybe-California, anywhere else.

 

\------

 

You realize very quickly that being aware is a whole new hell. Though you know you haven't lost yet, you have to endure horrors with newfound clarity. You realize that having lived past something and having lived through something are two very different things.

 

You realize that the way you let a piece of you break free helped, and it could keep on helping. You realize that you could give in to the way all of the different parts of your mind are pulling in opposite directions. And you know that you shouldn’t let yourself break under the weight of Gideon’s loving gaze but you also know that you’ll never get out of this room if you let your mind stay as it is now, as a battlefield. You can deal with this, you can make it through, but you have to hide away the parts of you that can’t.

 

Right now your mind is struggling, even in the instant before the split takes place. Before your mind divides it sees itself in all its glory and begs for help, for relief, like you begged to be free what feels like so long ago now- _I don’t want it, please, I don’t-_.

 

There’s nothing you can do to stop it. You’re so full up, you’ve been stuffed with knowledge and drugs and horror and pain, with images of nightmares come true, over and over, with the cold harsh burden of truth, and nothing else can fit into your body without cutting a piece of you out first.

 

You need a little room for hope to settle in and grow.

 

When you remember this moment, all you think of is silence and desperation and fear. Even your extraordinary memory will never do it justice. But in the moment, you know.

 

There’s nothing quite like the tenuous sound of the mind as it’s sundered.

 

So every time he positions you, every time he touches you, every time he violates your very being, you fracture, just a little bit. And every time you realize something- every time you shape something, store something, remember remember remember- a part of you freezes, cements, it just hardens to stone in your mind and you’re disconnected. All your favorite pieces have chipped right off.

 

The light memories were the first to go because they were on the surface. Because they rose through your soul like bubbles in your drink. Like you imagine they would, if you had those anymore- drinks- the bubbly kind. But the thing is that you don't. You don't have anything but water and pain and this damn concrete box with this deathbed of a mattress and the stench of horror soaked deep into the walls. There are no happy memories left to be found here, no more to make. You're full of heavy, full draining, full of tired to the bone.

 

The darkness here is crystal clear. Here there is no warm fuzzy mesh screen to dull all the senses. This- this is horror if horror had a face, walking head held high with laser focused vision into death’s very arms. This is latching on to death’s shirt sleeves and burrowing in, is tunneling through the cloth, the flesh, bone, all back through, coming out the other side, stalling in air, this is falling. This is killing yourself, over and over so that one day you might live.

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

Your reality is unbearable. You can feel yourself tiring from the constant strain, but you are surviving. You’re fairly sure that Gideon hasn’t yet caught on, except that then he starts talking to you again, starts making you engage, be present in your body when he’s there. Maybe that’s an extension of him taking you off of the drugs, he wants you to be more of your original self, decided that your easy compliance was too boring, not thrilling enough.

 

You hope he doesn’t really know that you’ve broken through the thick haze over your thoughts, that you’re actually aware, that you’ve been torn down too many times in your life and you ripped your way from the chains holding you where you fell and stood right back up over and over and over, that you going down is a common occurrence but you staying down, well, that’s unheard of.

 

So he starts making you talk to him. He asks simple questions, but he’s making you remember things you never wanted to think about even before you got here. He asks and he pulls you in over and over and again and again, wiping the fog off the glass tank wall between you and your reality. This is you being ruined, over and over- again and again, is jumping back and forth from hiding out to hiding in. Hiding outside in misery not yet past, hiding inside in the burning embers of angry memories. Hiding, wherever your hiding place might be, is lonely and dark and afraid and never free.

 

Gideon- you know he takes pleasure in his total control, his power over you. You wonder if he planned this, took you off the drugs knowing you could stop the haze from winning, if he knew you weren’t far enough gone yet but he wanted to watch this, now, how you’re carefully biding your time behind this mask.

 

You wonder if he did it all to see you just like this. Watch you think you had an answer, think maybe you could win. Watch you play along- willingly- and watch you just- just give in. Maybe he does this for the ultimate power, for knowing that he controlled your very will, made you want something- made you want him.

 

Maybe it's all your fault- you played right into his hands. You thought you could trick the man who taught you everything, who groomed you to his mold for years up until he lost control. You aren't very good at thinking these days, it seems. You were wrong, so wrong about this, and now you just gave him everything he wanted. If he knows- if he did this- you can’t think that way.

 

If he did this then you did what you had to to survive. You had to give in, had to want everything to go as usual, had to want him, had to keep your awareness secret because if he didn’t plan this- well, if he didn’t plan this you might still have a chance.

 

The part of you that reads criminals like a gossip column demands that you deal in logic, in outcomes, in best possible solutions; this part believes in sacrifice. There's a part of you that doesn’t. There exists a part of you that knows that sometimes a sacrifice demands too high a price. You guess it doesn’t matter which part of you is bigger, stronger, because the price?

 

You’ve already paid it.

 

\---------------------------------

 

Gideon- the questions he’s asking you now- he's asking about high school, about when you were a kid. He's asking and you're answering and you're thinking thinking thinking, about hell, about school, about your young self, when you were him. You get stuck in a whirlpool, all of your thoughts mixing together and hitting against each other leaving you exposed. And now you're giving Gideon even more psychological power over yourself, because you are terrified, thinking you are that younger you, believing you are him.

 

You can feel how shattered you are now, feel the separations down the lines of all the fractures, feel every part of you jumbling together- sharp edge against sharp edge. You are every you you've ever been- every scared boy, young man, desperate plea. You are every you at once. Gideon has you now, locked down tight inside your own spirit, inside this cage of broken glass, he's going to win- you've no more chances to slip free.

 

Now, when you’re holding on to sanity by a fraying thread, the memories threaten to knock you down once and for all. You didn’t have the easiest childhood in the world. Your life reads like a ‘How To Make A Unsub’ manual- and, oh, that brings back memories of cases, of work, of friends you thought you’d never have. But they’re in danger now, and you might never see any of them again. And you might never see another case again, never help catch another killer, never save another soul from a fate like yours.

 

That’s why you did it- became an agent. Your whole life was filled with these encounters, with people who shouldn’t have been able to get at you but did, meetings with people who hurt hurt hurt everyone they came into contact with, people who should have been locked up tight. It started feeling like it was your fault, like you were attracting these kinds of people somehow, because how could you be targeted so many times if it was random? How could you be so consistently made the victim if there wasn’t something about you that made it so?

 

It used to tear you apart inside, but you realized that these people targeted you because you were vulnerable. You realized that it wasn’t your fault. You just never had anyone there to protect you. So you decided to become a protector for those who needed one, to chase the monsters out of as many closets as you could.

 

And now here you are, many years later, living with your choices. You are limp against a mattress on the floor of a small concrete room, locked in by another person you thought you could trust. You are dying, here. You feel like you are dying and he’s just sitting there, stroking your hair away from your face, resting your head on his knee like he loves you, like you’re just sleepy.

 

You are not sleepy. You are tired, you are exhausted, you are waiting for the end. He’s just humming and sitting and asking. He won’t stop asking you.

 

He’s asking you and you- you remember- you-

 

_You’re sitting in the library minding your own business when they come in, a group so large that the librarian is glaring even though they’ve yet to utter a word. The shuffling of their feet grabs your attention, though, and you can’t focus on your book anymore, with the weight of a crowd like that against your back. You decide to use the time to grab another book from the shelves, taking a small stack with you to return to their places._

 

_Technically you aren’t supposed to re-shelve books, but the librarian knows that you know the system better than her, even, so nobody stops you. You’ve had the system memorized since you were old enough to read. By the time you return to your table you’ve got three more books in your hands, but you don’t have to be home until late tonight anyways. You’re just debating about whether Mom will be coherent when you turn past the last shelf that was obscuring your view of your table. You freeze._

 

_There are seven kids at your table, around your piles of things, so many that there aren’t enough chairs. You don’t recognize them by name, but they’re about 17, so you guess that they’re upperclassmen from your school. What they’re doing here, you have no idea, but you convince yourself to keep walking, stopping just behind the chair you were occupying. The kid across from you smiles and pushes a stack of papers over the table to you, so you glance down at them. They look like homework assignments._

 

_You open your mouth, close it. The older kids all laugh. “We’ll be back tomorrow, loser,” the apparent leader states. “Have fun or we will,” he flicks his eyes over to another kid in baggy clothes who pulls the edge of a pocket knife from his jeans just far enough to reflect the light right back into your wide eyes. The group laughs again turns to walk out, but one kid stops, turns back to you, and snatches your backpack from the floor._

 

_“Don’t need any distractions,” he sneers, a smug smile on his face as he exits the library with your backpack on one shoulder and his friends at the other. You look down at your pile of books and then to the papers. Sighing softly, you turn around to re-shelve your latest acquisitions. You don’t think you’ll be seeing your mother tonight._

 

This scene stings and crackles through your chest like lightning every time you allow yourself to remember it. At the time you had no idea how much that moment would hurt, how long the hurt would endure. At the time you could still feel the immediate pain of bruises, of scratches, cuts, of broken bones.

 

Now, years later, you know that the physical bullying was the least of the damage. You know what really messed you up. It was the unflattering labels they drilled into your vocabulary, the ideas they planted in your head, the mindsets they reinforced that truly hurt you.

 

You can remember, almost exactly, everything they did to you and when they did it, yet this is the memory that is haunting you as Gideon speaks. This is the memory that told you that everyone knew you were good for one thing and one thing only. This is the moment that a group of total strangers confirmed that the only thing worth note about you was that you could complete their homework faster than they could and with so little effort that making up answers would be harder than just writing the correct ones.

 

This is you at 4 years old playing chess at the park, at 10 years being old tied to a goalpost helpless to defend yourself, at 11 years old in the library, at 12 coaching the basketball team using mathematics and statistics trying to gain some popularity the only way you know how. This is you at 14 years old already in college classes, at 19 years old meeting Jason Gideon for the first time, at 21 years old joining the bureau, at 25 working on the geographic profile instead of being out in the field like the fully qualified agent you are.

 

This is you just before you were kidnapped, sitting at your desk completing a stack of paperwork at least double the size it should be, helping out the rest of the team the only way you know how, being useful in the only way you were ever told you were.

 

This is you questioning what a brain like yours is worth if it invalidates everything else you are, then wondering whether there was ever anything else to you in the first place. This is a question of your very worth.

 

This is the memory that hurts.

 

You can’t help it any more, you burst into tears. But that’s not the right word- your face remains slack, eyes blank, lips parted just enough to breathe freely through your mouth- nothing is bursting, nothing is that violent, that obvious. Tears just trail quietly down from your eyes to Gideon’s jeans, calmly- they have all the time in the world. It’s a subtle pain, a slow one: it doesn’t burn through you forcefully or carve pieces out to fit itself in. This pain just laps at the edges of your awareness, surrounds you and consumes you slowly. You aren’t going anywhere, it knows it will win.

 

Gideon once told you that you don’t have to carry a gun to kill someone. You can feel the truth of it in your whole body- in your jumpy mind, your aching muscles, in the way your lungs are heaving against the weight of your reality. You can feel the truth of it in the way that your throat tickles down to your chest with the need to laugh at your disbelief, years old now, your foolish naivete, expired and dried out and rotten down to the very bones. You don’t need a gun to kill someone.

 

You guess he took his own advice.

 

The tears just are, and you don’t move a muscle. The ending is not a bang, it’s a whimper. You are Spencer Reid, and if you don’t go out in quotes then who will?

 

But this is not an ending. You can’t give up. So you roll yourself over gracelessly and clumsily from your side to your back, keeping your head in Gideon's lap, staring just over his shoulder with unfocused eyes, and you recite to him, give him every answer he asks for, provide just the slightest resistance to the the cloud closing in around you. It can wait. Gideon wants you now, and what he wants he knows how to take. You have to go along with it because you need a little more time.

 

You feel like your shattered pieces are being lost one by one to the wind of his sticky breath across your cheek, too warm, too close, too loud. You have to be a lifeless husk on the outside, and you have to be the genius and analyze and wait and plan, and you have to be who he wants you to be when he wants you to be it, and you have to be high school you when he wants to talk, and you have it keep it all secret.

 

  
There’s this pull in your head that you can always feel, this current rushing back into dangerous waters, into the old days. The days where you could breathe and not think, the days where the relief of dilaudid in your system was all you had to anticipate. Those days were the worst of your life because you loved them so much. And here you are, back where it all started, as a hostage. And you wish you could be that you, the one in his own apartment ruining his life for a needle. The one who didn’t think, didn’t care. You wish you were free so you could imprison yourself. You wish you could lose yourself to the high again the same way you used to lose yourself to Gideon’s will.

 

There is a revolver pointed at your face and you can see the bullet in the chamber.

 

You don’t need a gun to kill somebody.


	4. kick up the dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so- obviously!- but im just going to remind you- very unreliable narrator. just. keep that in mind. also: the more i go to school the less i care about grammar. i promise that i got perfect scores on the act and sat english/reading sections but honestly i hate it so i write how i want people to read it? like. fuck it. im an adult. one last thing: this is really turning into a mess and im sorry... please read it anyways?

You don’t even feel human anymore. You are his life size rag doll. You hold everything you could be inside and you just give in, you let him take whatever he wants, you let him pretend. He pretends you are his and you play along.

 

It chokes you up sometimes, the thought of what you’ve become. Your body is the currency in this room, your mind a hindrance. For the first time, you wish everyone else was right in the value they assigned you. You wish you truly were worthless outside of your mind, but it turns out you aren't, not completely. 

 

Here you deal in touches, in skin, in power and control. Here you pay and pay and pay and get nothing in return. 

 

A few days- maybe weeks, though it feels like a lifetime- into your new ruse Gideon leaves you lying slack on your god forsaken mattress with your face toward the ceiling. This is rare, usually he tugs your limbs into some semblance of order, turning your head to the side and tucking your arms up under it. Usually he likes you to look small. This time he just leaves you on your back. You don’t react, but inside your mind is screaming, begging for you to use this opportunity, to recognize it for what it is. 

 

You wait until he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Then you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The unfocused, empty, listless gaze you’ve adopted slips off of your face as you zero in on the edge of the ceiling where it meets the wall behind you. It’s time to search the room. 

 

You follow the edges of the wall first, scan the ceiling. Discreetly, of course. This is why you had to wait, so that if he was watching you wouldn’t give yourself away. 

 

After all of the walls are deemed clear you risk pushing your head back into the mattress, rolling your neck to the sides. You search low, eyes darting around to limit your larger movements as much as possible. There aren’t many places in the room to hide a camera, so before you know it you deem the whole space camera free. You aren’t sure how confident you can be in that assessment.

 

Gideon watched you through a screen, years ago, when you were stuck in that dark cabin, all alone and terrified. He saw you restrained, saw you hurt, saw you helpless.

 

He knew that he had sent you there.

 

You think that was the moment that inspired all of his fantasies, the moment that led to all of this. It would make sense for him to want to watch, to recreate that first taste of ultimate power. 

 

Then again, maybe he isn’t technologically advanced enough to feel safe using that kind of equipment. Maybe he doesn’t perceive that he has enough control over a live video stream. 

 

For a power-assertive rapist, his domination and the total submission of the victim are the goal. He wants to humiliate his victim, to force them into cooperating in various sex acts. This type of rapist may use hidden recording devices, but ultimately needs to feel like the most powerful variable in any given situation. 

 

With his background, the rapist most likely feels that his profiling skills are superior to any kind of tracking equipment. Considering the length of time he has kept his victim he probably doesn't feel the need to record anything for later enjoyment. He plans to keep them; he’ll just use the real thing. Power-assertive rapists don't normally keep souvenirs.

 

Therefore, this offender most likely doesn't use any cameras. 

 

But this is Gideon. This is no simple offender. This is a man who can’t be simplified with a profile, this is a man with a history, this is a man you knew- a man you thought you knew. 

 

This is Gideon and you are his victim.

 

Armed with your profile, you try to keep calm when Gideon returns. It doesn’t help. He digs into your skin and stays there. He burrows inside you and pretends that he’s helping, he does what he always does and kills you, slowly, no gun in sight, no physical weapon necessary- just himself. 

 

He lays you out facing the door this time, curled up in a way that might have comforted you, once, if you were the one who pulled yourself into the position. You watch him card his hand through your hair, turn away, open up the door. 

 

As he leaves he smiles at you, and from your makeshift grave you blink up at him and you feel so small. 

 

You always feel small.

 

\---------

 

You have to escape. You have to get out of here now if you can because you won’t last much longer like this. Something is going to give- soon. 

 

The hope of showers or baths getting you out of the room doesn’t last long. He’s been giving you sponge baths, wiping you down and washing your hair over a bucket of water that he takes with him when he leaves. You’ll have to find another opportunity.

 

Since you’ve decided that it’s safe to assume there are no cameras you’ve been stretching when Gideon leaves, trying to regain control over your body, your movements. You slowly worked up to standing and now you’ve been walking circles while he is gone. Your muscles are weak but they are in working order. 

 

They’ll just have to be enough. You can’t live like this, you’re feeling too disoriented all of the time, the pressure locking in on your mind from all sides is threatening to crush your spirit where it is chained up deep inside of you. You are going to break if you don’t try, don’t resist, don’t fight the intrusion on your will for once.

 

So, even though you’ve been too busy holding yourself together in secret to come up with a reasonable escape plan, you decide to risk it. You decide that today is the day you are going to fight back, you are going to escape. You know you aren’t thinking clearly and you could easily lose every chance of hope you still have, but part of you- part of you believes in sacrifice.

 

You get up, check the door that you’ve been staring at for hours upon days and- it’s unlocked. The handle turns under your fingers and hope jumps up your throat eager and radiant, but you clamp down your control and push it away before it gets out of hand. You can’t feel hope like that because it can be blinding. You need common sense, rationality. A deep breath calms your trembling limbs.

 

If the door is open then Gideon must not be concerned about you leaving. This could be due to the fact that he believes you are too doped up to be able to make it this far, but that is highly unlikely. Gideon isn’t reckless. Gideon may seem irrational and impulsive, even unpredictable at times, but underneath it all he is calm and collected and calculating. He wouldn’t leave the door open like this unless he wanted you to try to escape through it. 

 

Most likely there is a secondary line of defense behind this door. Gideon would, of course, be watching, ready to see the results of his test, to see if you are truly under his power. If you fail you will be giving yourself away, letting him in on the secret that may not even be a secret at all.

 

This is risk and reward, only one of the variables is a life- your life. How can one assign a value to sanity, to freedom?

 

As you stand in front of the door your heart starts pumping faster, faster, faster.

There’s a voice screaming inside your head for you to stop, to turn, to wait. Rational thought used to be your strong suit. But here, now, your heart is dragging you with it, demanding you save yourself from any more hurt, get out now, take the chance. 

 

You're a mess of a person. You know this. You've always been a mess. 

 

But you are not weak. You hear it echo through your memories, so loud you almost jump, thinking someone is in the room. 

 

You imagine that you can hear the sound of your own voice bouncing off the barren walls, even though your lips are glued tightly together with fear. You can hear the voice of your ten year old self, desperate to prove himself, stating loud and clear, though hesitant, “I’m not weak.” 

 

You can hear it like you can hear the whisper underneath it- the broken whisper of a man, of you, trapped and hurt and almost broken- rasping like a prayer, “I’m not weak, I’m not weak.”

 

You add another voice, a silent one, the voice of you, now, standing at the edge of a cliff. 

 

You are not weak. 

 

So you pry your hand away from where it is gripping the handle and take a step back and keep stepping, retreating from the edge and not jumping, not giving in.

 

You are not weak. You can make it through this. Once more, one more time. Then you can go. You have to wait until the time is right, until Gideon leaves this room one last time, satisfied and confident. He won’t be as on guard, then, and you will have the more time to get far away before he realizes you are gone- if you can make it past him without detection, that is. It’s not a good plan. It is not safe. But you need to get out now. 

 

You pull every you together, easily, as every you has the same heart pumping warm red blood through your body- still inside of you, still fighting. Gideon hasn't won, not yet.

 

He cannot break you; you will not let him.

 

\--------------

 

The next time Gideon comes you lose your confidence, fast. You retreat so far into your mind that you aren't sure you’ll be able to get back out. Your mind is screaming at you, saying you should have ran when you had the chance. You know that the odds of you actually making it out were astronomically low, but you also know that it would have ended this specific brand of hellish existence, one way or another. 

 

Even if you had lost, even if you'd been pushed back into exactly what he wanted, you could have been happier. You could have been content, not knowing how wrong it was. It could have been so easy- easy and calm. You could have just. Ceased to exist, as you are now. Mindless, but truly.

 

You could have forgotten, escaped. Isn't that what you've always wanted?

 

But then Gideon leaves and your insides try to jump out of your throat and this is it. You don't have a plan but now it's time to go. You can't move. You hear his footsteps retreating up the stairs and if you don't go now you'll miss your chance, you'll have waited for nothing, you’ll- breathe. 

 

Breathe, you have to breathe. You push it all aside. Go go go you have to go now. This is it this is it this is- breathe in- this is it this is it- move, breathe out- this is it- what are you doing- turn the handle- freeze. 

 

You can still hear Gideon moving above you but you think he’s left the staircase. You know the door doesn't creak; you've been paying attention lately. You gather your strength, your nerve, like armour around your body, around all of you, because this is you, all of it. 

 

You are Spencer Reid.

 

Spencer Reid is capable of miracles, Spencer Reid is knows how to get back up. 10,000 hours, they say. It takes 10,000 hours of practice to become an expert. You’ve spent your whole life training for this moment, standing back up again and again, rising up against the odds and winning. You can climb up one last time; you've mastered the art of recovery. If it means anything, if your life is to mean anything, you will open this door and you will be okay.

 

You open the door.

 

Nothing happens except for a slight rush of air. This isn't anything special. You can keep an even head. You live in crime scenes, in the balance between life and death, in terror and horror and endings. This is an ending- nothing more, nothing less.

 

You deal in logic, in outcomes, in best possible solutions. This is a beginning.

 

You take one last deep breath. In, hold, out. You step into the future, for better or for worse. Your mind calms. Observe, think, act. Sharp, calculating, swift and precise and careful. 

 

There’s a paper plate on the third stair from the bottom, just feet away, with a sandwich on top of it. It looks like the meal Gideon would bring you the next time he came down, except that he's supposed to be done with you for the day. You're supposed to have all night. Does he leave it out until he deems it necessary to feed you? You haven't recognized a pattern in when he brings you food, and you assumed he did that because he didn't want you to have a sense of time, to recognize patterns, to make connections, to have anything to rely on but him. 

 

Maybe it's all just impulse. Maybe he takes what he wants when he wants it, maybe he doesn't think that far ahead. 

 

But this is Gideon. Why would he leave this here? Have you made a mistake, will he come looking for you again in few hours? You were supposed to have more time than that. You were supposed to be smart about this, but you are desperate. You have to get moving. You don't want to sit in this basement any longer. You can't knock yourself back down when you've just pulled your mind together in some loose semblance of sanity, of clarity. 

 

You make a decision, probably the wrong one. You don't know when you’ll get food again and you'll need all the energy you can get if you're going to get away from here. You have no idea where here is, and you are now unsure of when Gideon will realize you are gone. So you forget about the why and you eat the sandwich, quickly. You are leaving now, wise or not. 

 

This is an ending. This is a beginning.

 

Sandwich devoured, you take a few more light steps up the stairs. Slowly, but not too slow. You pause, listen, hear Gideon humming, hear running water. He's probably cleaning himself up. This is your chance. You continue to the top of the stairs, press your hands to the walls, stop again. You can barely hear it over the pounding of your heart in your ears but it's there. The water is still running. 

 

You assess your surroundings, eyes honing in on the closest door. There’s a door in this room, right there. It’s that easy. Inside you can feel a part of you sag in relief. It has windows, ones that lead outside. They show darkness, so it is night time. You still can't figure out why that plate was there. 

 

Hesitantly, you move your foot out from the safety of the narrow stairway, stepping out from the basement for the first time in what feels like years. Your hands are trembling. This is an ending. This is a beginning. 

 

You shift your weight forward and step out into the room. Your eyes quickly take in the surroundings revealed. Nobody is watching, that's all that matters now. The rest you can think about later. You see a phone sitting on a table, but the door is closer, and you think that's the better option regardless. You want to get out of here as fast as possible. 

 

Now you just have one last variable. You tread cautiously to the door- a dark brown stained wood, your new favorite color, probably- and set your hand to the round silver handle. You twist your wrist, silent, not even daring to breathe, and- you hold in a sob because it  _ opens. _ You’re free. But you can't afford to celebrate now.

 

As quickly as you can you leave the house, cabin, whatever the hell it is behind and close the door behind yourself, keeping the handle turned until the door is safely in the frame to stop the click of the lock.

 

You turn to face your freedom, to run, escape, to find help, anything, and the world lurches around you. The shadows of trees in the darkness jump towards you, wriggle away, turn and twist and- you aren't moving but everything else is. 

 

You shake your head- everything moves with you but three seconds too slow.

 

What have you done what have you done- you try to check your head but it's fuzzy and there's a sandwich in front of you but you're outside and the sandwich is gone. The feeling of crumbs falling from your fingers grabs every shred of your attention. There is a door right in front of you but you can't move. 

 

Steps- you were walking up steps but when you put your feet in front of you they fall down. The steps are going down and you are falling- this isn't a rising up time this is a falling down time. You've had plenty of those- 10,000 hours of practice. To practice getting up you also had to practice being knocked down. Down down down- three steps and then there is ground. Outside- you are outside.

 

Wait- how did this happen so fast? You can taste bread in your mouth. You knew you shouldn't have eaten that sandwich. It was a trick, his secondary line of defense, you were so stupid, what do you have left if you can't even think straight- no, focus- you need to run. You are still standing, you are still moving, you need to get away. You're out, you're almost there. 

Desperation soaks your whole body and you shake with the chill of it. You turn to inspect the area and the shadows jump around you, grabbing and pulling and touching and- this is all setting in too fast, what did he give you? 

It doesn't matter- look around, you know you have to look around. You can fight your way out of this. You turn and look around and there's nothing but a forest and trees and darkness and shadows, so many shadows. 

Go go go. You’re walking through the woods and it’s dark and you need to get away but you don’t know where you should- there’s a path. Okay so you should follow the path away away away. Walking- no, running- running quick like a rabbit to get far away. 

The path isn't ideal, you recognize that- briefly- but you can't think straight; you'll get lost if you try to navigate your way through the dark forest in this state. Get away, just get far away, you tell youself. This clarity will pass. 

Follow the path, follow the path, follow the path follow thepathfollowthepathfollow- it feels like you haven't even moved but you’ve been walking for so long, as long as you can remember. 

The path- it looks like it goes uphill but it's hard to tell with the lack of lighting and- you feel like you are tripping over your feet fighting gravity moving down- down- down. You can't trust your senses. You follow the path. 

You hear a noise to your left, something in the woods. It’s probably a toad or a squirrel or a small animal, they belong here, you know this. You're okay, it's just- you've always been afraid of the dark. 

You can't think about it just- follow the path. 

You are walking and walking and your fists clench by your sides. This is it. You have to keep moving, focus, focus, get as far away as you can but- no this was a bad idea. Gideon will find you and take you back and hurt you what have you done what have you done- too late- follow the path.

There’s a noise to your left. A rabbit. It had to be a rabbit. Keep walking- running- on the path, on the path, on the path.

It’s really dark. There are shadows- they’re going to get you- no- positive thinking. Thinking slow, thinking- thinking you’re on drugs- drugs, he drugged you. The sandwich. Second line of defense- you knew that why didn’t you listen he’s going to get you now. 

Run. 

You need to run as far and as fast as you can. Away away away- path! There’s a path; follow the path. 

  
  


You’re scared of the dark. You’re so scared because once, a long time ago, your father pushed you into the closet with the shadows to try to prove that there were no monsters in there. There weren’t, but you didn’t know back then that the real monster was the man on the outside of the closet, back then you thought your father had handed you right over to the demons and the boogie monsters and the furry, hungry, hungry things.

They ate you right up- you thought that, you thought they were going to swallow you whole. And you reached out a hand, back then in that closet. You grasped desperately at air until you passed out for the fear of it all. 

You hear a noise in the trees, a crunch of twigs under pressure. A deer? You don’t know where you are but it's probably just a deer, the sounds of normal forest things. You need to focus, there's no reason to be afraid of what's out here. The real danger is in that basement, it's Gideon- what if he’s following you?

You can feel your mind slowly spiraling into darkness, into despair. This night started out with a balloon in your chest- hope, trying to lift you up and up and up- so bright you had to fight against it to keep your feet on the ground and now you are dragging your feet through the mud trying to stay upright with the weight of the night and shadows pressing down on you from all sides.

You reach out a hand now, almost tripping over sticks and logs and fallen trees. You lift your twitching limb and clasp onto that hand, the pale and shaky and sticky fingers poking out of that closet. You hold onto that boy like someone should, like a real father would. 

The real monster was your father.

There’s a noise in the woods to your left. A bear, probably a bear nothing bigger than that. Surely. You clench your fists at your sides where one of them is intertwined with a boy’s. You are leading this boy like a father leading his son, you will guide him where he needs to go- where- the path.

You pull him along the path.

You hear a noise in the woods, something big, scraping the bark off the trees as it passes- everything always repeats. You fight back the panic that tries to swallow you whole like the darkness that is closing in.

What if- no.

You stumble, tilt to the side, fall. You catch yourself with your hands and clumsily get back on your feet. Keep moving.

What if, what if this night is ending now, what if you are processing too slow but really, right now, you are being pulled by Gideon back into the basement. 

What if the way your body registers this now is in the desperation pulling you forwards, dragging one foot in front of the other to follow the path- the narrow winding path that looks like it's going up but is really taking you down, down like the narrow hallway with the staircase that leads to the basement, to your undoing. 

You keep hearing a noise in the woods, and there’s no way that it it’s a coincidence. Something is coming for you; you are being hunted.

He’s going too slow for you so you try to encourage him- the boy- because you need to keep moving if you’re going to get away. You tell him he’s doing so well, come on, you can make it, keep walking. And you think that he tells you that you’d make a good father, that he’s so scared of the dark but with you he feels safe. 

There is a noise in the woods, and you keep hearing it because you are stuck here in your mind while you fear you are actually in the basement with Gideon, the real predator, the one that's following you, snapping branches under his feet like he severs your connection to reality with one little chemical, forcing his way inside you like these dark thoughts.

You've always been scared of the dark.

You think about how when you were 4 years old your father pushed you into your closet and how your little hands grasped desperately at the air, searching for a hand to hold- you were so so scared. 

You reach down to let yourself latch on to your hand, to close your hand around those small, clammy fingers from years apart, and you realize you don’t even need to move to do it. You guess you were already there so you just tighten your hand at your side in his. You know the monsters are real now, you were right to be scared. But you don't need to face them alone, not then, not quite yet.

You remember how you already thought this, about how you’re stuck in this spiral going down and down and down and everything is repeating and getting darker all the while and there’s something in the woods and you keep hearing it over and over and it’s getting closer. And there are two of you and now you’re really, really confused and scared and you need to move.

You follow the path.

You turn to look behind you and there is no light in sight, no glow from windows, no sign of the place you are running from. You must be moving forward. Keep going, keep going.

There is a little boy walking next to you, your hands are by your sides even though one is interlocked with his because he is so small, so helpless down there. There is a noise in the woods. The boy gasps and turns and the shadows jump up around him, twisting and turning and trying to swallow him whole. You tighten your grip around his hand at your right side. 

He is so scared. Maybe he should be. There is something coming for you. Something- maybe it already has you. You tell him it's okay, though. You tell him to follow the path, he's doing so well.

The boy speaks, says you'd make a good father as you lead him through the night. Again and again, as the noises come and the dark closes in and the path looks like you're going nowhere even though you've been walking for as long as you can remember. 

There’s another noise, from the woods on your left. You turn- turn- turn back and check, scan your eyes desperately over the dark and the shadows and the scared- scared- scared flashing like phosphenes in your vision. He’s going to get you. There’s a bad man in these woods and he’s coming right at you. 

A brief period of clarity- you shouldn’t have followed the path it will be too easy for him to catch you- what have you done- run. Run, you have to run. It doesn't matter. Run. As fast as you can, away away away. 

Everything keeps repeating. Everything always repeats. This sense that something is coming, this darkness worming it's way inside of you- maybe it means it's already happened. Maybe you're sensing similarities to try to put yourself back here, back to before he got you- Gideon. Because Gideon is coming, you know it, this night ends in disaster. You’re drugged, your mind is under the influence and too slow but it’s coming, you are panicking and you know it.

You follow the path, desperately. You have nothing else to do.

The boy at your side is terrified of darkness, of monsters, of this situation he has found himself in. Maybe- maybe he showed up because he’s you. There’s a noise in the woods to your left, a predator, hunting you.

You reach out a hand to catch your fall as you trip over sticks or stones or worse- only one hand because someone has the other. They are pulling on your hand, this dark and shadow person. They are dragging you forward on this path. You have to follow the path.

You are so so scared of the dark but with this person guiding you you feel safe. A good father, you think, he’d make a good father- you maybe think this out loud- a good father, trying to pull you out of the shadows instead of pushing you in. Into the closet and the dark and the monsters- there are monsters in this wood. There are monsters on your left, crashing through the woods, and you look over there- to the left- and there’s someone there, he’s going to get you and- he’s on your left- drag you down down down into his evil lair. He’s tugging your hand, he’s going to pull you in and eat you up. He’s going to kill you; he is going to tear you apart. 

There’s a boy to your right. You think- maybe that little boy is you, a you that's terrified of the dark, that wants desperately for someone to help, for someone to tell him what to do to make it better. A you that wants the help of his father. That reaches out a hand. 

You are small, and you look up to your left and it's a figure, the one that was you, but now that is him and you are you. And there's a noise to your left- he tells you that you're doing so well, just follow the path, and his hand in yours guides you forward, no hesitation. He knows where he is going, he has a clear path to follow.

You think he’d make such a good father, guiding you with his hand in yours like you scrambled to find so long ago when your own father pushed you into the monster’s den- maybe you think this out loud or maybe you already have.

You follow him. 

Then, a moment of clarity or of madness or worse. You pull your mind together like you did earlier, at the bottom of the staircase. An ending, a beginning.

This is a beginning, an ending too. The escape is over. And you realize then that he’s drugged you again, that it’s only confusing because you can’t process it all correctly but it’s simple, really. The you that you were is Gideon, he was the noise on the left, the monster in the woods, he found you, he's guiding you like a child, he's the predator, the figure you saw as a father, once, who ended up throwing you back into the darkness, the monster’s den. 

You wonder why father figures always have to ruin you.

You need to get away- run run run- where? Away away away follow the path away; he’s guiding you. He’s following the path so it’s okay. He’s holding your hand and comforting you, making you feel so safe while he guides you through this dark path in the woods. 

You should follow him, you like him, he tells you you’re doing well, just keep going. He’s going to get you out of this closet, expanded by childlike imagination and fear. He’s going to get you out of here- No he’s not, he’s not- you are in his shadow, you are swallowed whole. 

You wonder if the reason this night unfolded and repeated like Russian nesting dolls- one horror hidden inside the other, growing, changing, becoming bigger and resonating out from the shadows- is because you’re already at the end of the night now. You're there, with him, still processing how you got there, throwing clues to the place you are now, trying desperately to get yourself to stop following this pathway to hell in front of you, to stop what's already happened.

But you can't change the past. So you just- you pull the terror back inside of you as deep as you can and you try to breathe and you hope and you follow the path. 

You hope desperately that this is just your brain making up stories, running on overdrive. That the drug in your system is just magnifying your worst fear, making your whole body shake under the weight of it. That you really are just running away like you think you are, that the heaviness is just strain on your underused muscles pushing to carry you so far so fast that you'll get free, that the darkness of the night sent your imagination into a downwards spiral, that everything turns out okay. You just- you don't know what's going on, so you hope for the best and keep moving.

You've always been afraid of the dark. 

You squeeze tighter on the hand guiding you, heart pounding in your chest for the terror of it all, and you shuffle closer to the figure- this reflection of yourself, of Gideon, of monsters, of worse- as you stumble through the shadowed wood. 

You keep following the path. There's nothing else for you to do.

Maybe when this is all over you won't remember a thing. 

Maybe you’ll never forget.

 

\-----

They find you in a warehouse in Minnesota, tied to a chair in the middle of the otherwise empty room. 

Alone.


	5. cut up like a drug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. sorry this took so long but.... this is not the plan i had for this chapter... this chapter was one of the first thing that i ever wrote for this story but i changed everything about it and no matter how long i stare at the page i can't write it like i originally wanted so... who knows where this story is going now, i guess. im just going to post what i have. let me know what you think!

They find you in a warehouse in Minnesota. It’s completely empty except for you and the chair you are sitting in. They call your name, “Spencer!”

 

“Spence!”

 

“Reid!”

 

Over and over again like an echo until you lift your chin from your chest and blink up at them, slowly. This is more than a noise in the woods. You blink again, but everything is blurry. So you shake your head, but, no, that hurts, and pictures spring up on the backs of your eyelids like old black and white films. There is light and dark and patterns and pain and you can do nothing but succumb to the pull of it, the sensations all around. 

 

You ache. All over, you ache.

 

And it itches it itches it- what is this feeling all over your body? If your eyes would just  _ open _ \- then, without delay, they do. You shake your head again but- oh. You forgot. The world fades out for the pain in your head.

 

But you can’t close your eyes again because something is wrong, something is so wrong about this whole situation, so you clench your fists by your sides.

 

Nobody is holding your hand. 

You’re distracted again by the itch, the restriction, the push and pull you feel all over, so you let your head flop back down because it seems easier than trying to direct your eyes and there are clothes on your body but that shouldn’t make you feel  _ wrong _ , should it? You don’t know anything, but you think that means you’re going crazy.

 

A loud noise catches your attention, but it’s distorted and slow and maybe you’ve been drugged because your ability to think right now is severely altered. 

 

“What’s happening?” you want scream, “What’s happening?” You wonder what happened to the path; all you remember is that you're supposed to keep moving. 

 

But you feel like you shouldn’t open your mouth for some reason, shouldn’t make a sound, so you leave your mouth where it is, sitting open and ready to speak, but you relax the muscles that tensed in anticipation of the words.

 

In fact, you have the urge to just relax completely, like everything will be okay because someone else will fix it, and all you have to do is hand over control. Your mind starts feeling better already, just by thinking about giving it a break- a real one. Being drugged- it’s not really that big of a deal. You’ve done it before plenty of times; it’s easy, really.

 

Everything is beginning to smooth over, the sharp edges of sensation attacking you from all sides are sanded off and you draw in a big breath, a real one, cool and deep and slow. Sound fades back into your awareness, “Reid!” you hear, and whatever that is supposed to mean you don’t particularly care, so you just stay.

 

You know you can stay, something tells you that you’re very good at waiting.

 

You can hear the noise coming closer, footsteps, but no leaves or twigs are crunching with each movement- wait, why would they be?

 

You are almost ready to open your eyes and find something to stare at, to track mindlessly, when something touches your shoulder and- your whole world narrows to the warmth spreading down your arm and expands violently and cracks and shatters and falls away and-. And no, no, no. 

 

Your eyes snap open and there's someone in front of you, kneeling on the ground. They look worried, terrified, but you don't really care what about because  _ you _ are terrified, because your vision is fading in and out and you feel yourself in multiple places at once and there's this heat on your shoulder, this pressure. 

 

You're going- going- gone, somewhere else, some other places- plural- and the things in front of your eyes now aren't real, you know, but that's where you are.

 

There are five of you, all in their own hell, all trapped alone and scared.

 

Sensations, touch, surprises- you’ve never liked them much. Something tells you that you like them even less, now.

 

_ You’re six years old and you’re tucked into your space themed sheets and you can feel the warmth of your father sitting on the edge of your bed. A hand reaches out and rests itself on your shoulder. It’s your dad.  _

 

_ You don’t want to be here.  _

 

_ You tell yourself that you'll remember, you'll remember how he makes you feel. You tell yourself that you'll always remember, tell yourself that you'll remember everything.  _

 

You don't remember where you really are, because you aren't here, not really, but there's a warmth on your shoulder that pulls you back into the moment-

 

_ He rubs from your shoulder to your back, circling wider and wider until you squirm. Your insides are cold and twisted and wrong. You want out out out, your mind is screaming so loud you almost cover your ears, but that wouldn’t make it stop. You can never stop anything. _

 

_ You don't like your father and you don't want him here and- _

 

_ you don't want to be here. _

 

You struggle to pull yourself back to reality, back to that place where you've forgotten too much just like you promised yourself you wouldn't, but your limbs are giving out, you're so tired, you ache all over-

 

_ You can feel the sheets around your legs suffocating you, it all feels too tight against your skin, you want to disappear beneath the covers and never come back out. But his hands are holding you here, in the open. Warm against your frigid body.  _

 

_ You always feel like a rat laid out on a metal table, scalpel shredding you in two, displayed for everyone to see, to study. _

 

_ You shiver, because the cold of the steel on your back feels real, feels immediate, feels so icy and impersonal and draining. You twist your hands in your pillowcase; hold your eyes shut as tight as you can. He’s so warm but you don’t want him any closer. _

 

_His hand burns against your shoulder._

 

_ He always gets closer. _

 

_ You’re 10 years old and they’re coming, they’re closing in on you, you’ll never get away. There are hands on your shoulders, first. Then on every limb, pulling, twisting, tearing until there is nothing between your body and the hands, so many hands. You can’t open your eyes. _

 

_ There are kids yelling, cheering, laughing loudly- so loud loud loud. You can’t process what’s happening around you. You know only the sudden burn of rope on your skin, the rough pull from the hands on your arms, the cold press of hard metal against your spine. Tears are dripping down your face, and they must be pooling in the mud you can feel under your feet, bare, hitting the busy field like sweat, and you are so, so scared. _

 

_ Everything is wrong. _

 

_ When you open your eyes there are students, so many kids, and they are everywhere, watching. Just watching. And you are calling out for help, you know you’re saying it out loud by now because your throat is aching and raw, and nobody is helping you, you’re all alone. You can’t even meet their eyes, just scan the ground, on the lookout for feet getting closer, for- there, you see someone approaching but you’re trapped.  _

 

_ You try to scramble back, escape, but the ropes around you are holding tight and it’s all you can do to just breathe. The football player- because you can see the cleats he’s still wearing from practice- he hits your head so hard your whole body sags.  _

 

_ The ropes are cutting into your skin but you don’t even care anymore, they’re all just  _ watching _. _

 

_ And then there is darkness, a single gaze burning through your shivering body, and you don’t look up, you don’t look up, and then you do. Your vision is tired, strained, but he is there, a teacher, watching you.  _

 

_ And your head falls back down and then he is next to you and then there is a hand on your knee and you watch, you follow it up your side until it rests on your shoulder. _

 

_ And that’s where your eyes stay while he ruffles your hair, and there is a distorted noise coming from somewhere close, but you can’t really focus, and then the ropes are untied. And you stumble- you can still feel the touch on your shoulder, it was so hot hot against your icy wooden cold- and see a smile but you look away, and you walk, faster, faster. And you can feel the weight of eyes on you, the heat. _

 

_ And then there is wind like pin pricks against your bare flesh, an all consuming darkness closing in on you, a single light above your head, a door mere feet away- why is everything always so close?  _

 

_ You put yourself closer. You walk to your door, the door to your sagging and neglected house, and it opens under your hands and when you get to the hallway a hand closes on your shoulder and you jump, and you turn, and she looks at you, Crash, and she doesn’t remember.  _

 

_ You try to tell her who you are; you’re her son, but she doesn’t know the truth- can’t, not really. And you get to your room and you sit facing your wall and the night goes by like a slideshow- jump jump jump- images flickering past just a little too quickly, edges not quite as sharp. _

 

_ And everything around you feels so burning hot with rage, but you’re still shivering. _

 

 _You’re 25 years old in a cabin and there’s a fire burning just feet away, you_ _can feel it, feel the heat on your skin; it’s warm._

 

_ There’s a hand on your shoulder, sliding down, clamped tight right under your elbow. You can’t move away because you’re handcuffed. The hand pulls your arm out straight and you still don’t look away. You know where you are, who this is; you don’t want to be here. You don’t want this, you don’t want it-  _ please _ - _

 

_ You are fuzzy and empty and still and someone is hurting you and you are just laying there on a mattress- just laying. There are these hands on you, all over; they’re red hot against your skin. And you want it all to stop. _

 

It’s all happening at once, you can’t breathe, there are too many of you now; you’re so much all the time, too much. It’s all too much. 

 

There is panic, thick and sharp and heavy and so large it pulls you with it under towering waves of memories, letting them crash over you louder than the screaming in your head and pull you down into the dark.  Finally, mercifully, your world goes black.

 

\-----------

  
  


You wake up and your eyes snap open and are instantly alert, tense, waiting for a threat to make itself known. You don't move.

 

You aren't supposed to move.

 

There are lights. You don’t like them, the bright bright lights.

 

Don’t move. You shouldn’t move unless he moves you- what-

 

Arguing. There are people arguing.

 

You close your eyes. 

 

There are lights again- you hear arguing.

 

You think they’re arguing about you.

 

It’s so hard to-

 

There is light and noise and there are people and you have no idea what is happening. You don't actually care. You wait patiently for someone to move you, to arrange you, to use you as they please. 

 

You are laying on your back, you notice, and your head is facing up towards something really bright. It burns your eyes as you stare at it but if this is where you were left then this is where you will stay.

 

There is a lot of noise. This stands out in your head for some reason. You aren't sure why it's such a shock to your system, but it isn't your job to figure that out. 

 

You let yourself drift away from your thoughts. Someone else will deal with this for you-  _ he  _ will. 

 

Your attention is stolen by a loud noise and a sudden darkness. Once you realize this you also notice that someone is touching your arm, holding your hand. You didn't notice because you're used to blocking out the touching. 

 

The person is leaning over your head, blocking the light from your eyes. They are talking, that's the noise. You try to listen.

 

“Spencer, are you awake? Spence? Come on Spencer I’m right here. Are you with me now?” 

 

You don't let your confusion show on your face. You keep your muscles loose, pliable. Leave your face blank so that any emotions can be superimposed over it depending on what he wants. 

 

Except- the person is a she. When you focus on your thoughts you realize that they're orbiting around this  _ he  _ that you can't remember. Who is he? Does it matter? No- you shouldn’t worry about this. You should just relax. 

 

You don't move but you let the haze overtake your mind and float away from your body.

 

You're drawn back by more noises. It's so loud. There are people- multiple people now- close to you and they are arguing. Maybe- maybe you should listen.

 

You overhear, “Why isn't he reacting? You missed something! You must have missed something, what the hell is wrong with him?”

 

Are they talking about you? You aren't moving, you aren't supposed to. You don't remember why. You just know.

 

Then there is a light in your eye. There is another person, and they are pointing a small flashlight right at you. The brightness moves from your right eye to your left. 

 

“His responses are normal. He should be fine,” the person with the light says. The yelling man must not like that because he starts shouting again.

 

“Why hasn't he done anything then? He hasn't moved an inch!” 

 

“He just needs time, Agent Morgan.”

 

There are more people and more noises and the big lights are still above your head and you don’t like it so you leave there again but you stay in your head.

 

You think that they are talking about you. You aren't moving. You aren't sure why. Maybe you should- no. It's better to stay. 

 

\----

  
  


Mr. Scratch. They say it’s Mr. Scratch who took you. Kidnapped you.

 

No. He was-

 

You don’t really care.

 

They look worried and you think you said that out loud. 

 

When the nurses come in with clipboards they ask if you want to know what the hell is wrong with your aching body and you tell them no, thank you, you don’t want to know a thing. 

 

You don’t remember anything.

 

The team gets even more worried when they hear your no, that you don’t want to hear. 

 

You want to tell them that they should leave you alone, that you’re doing fine, thanks.

 

You don’t think you say that out loud, mainly because nobody looks at you even more worried than before. 

 

Mostly all they do is worry.

 

Really, you’re fine.

 

\---

 

They want to interview you.

 

You tell them that they said they already knew who it was that did this.

 

They look worried. 

 

You are not impressed by this.

 

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, they ask you what you know about Halloween. You remind them that it isn’t October yet and even you know what month it is, seriously- professionals? 

 

You think that more than one of them cry.

 

You’re fine.

 

\----

  
  


This ‘Mr. Scratch’ that had you is still missing. You have no idea who that is but you don’t actually care too much- or at all, really. 

 

Something happened to you-

 

( _ something is wrong, something is very, very wrong _ )-

 

but from what you remember- which is, apparently, not much- you think you’re better off this way. This morning you saw an agent flash their badge and you panicked so much and so suddenly that you vomited-

 

( _ there’s a little something red on the corner) _ . 

 

You have no idea why and you’d rather keep it that way. Something that causes that much trouble is rarely ever worth it. 

 

They told you it was ‘Mr. Scratch’ that had you. This ‘Mr. Scratch’ has been leaving a trail of victims for months. He leaves his victims drugged-

 

( _ I don’t want it, please, I don’t- _ )-

 

and with certain instructions-

 

( _ no talking, not unless I say you can _ )-

 

but otherwise perfectly untouched. Of course, all of his victims have also had pre-existing mental problems. Why not? You’re crazy either way, now. They don’t know what he told you to do, what some part of you might believe. You don’t know either. You don’t really want to find out, but you guess you can’t really control it. They handcuffed you to the bed-

 

( _ you tug on the chains holding your wrists _ )- 

 

just in case. You don’t really mind. 

 

You don’t do much of anything, these days-

 

( _ easy and calm _ ). 

 

You think that might have worried them too, but they seem to worry no matter what. You laughed one time, when they brought out the handcuffs-

 

( _ your arms are bound over the bandages, this time with rope _ )-

 

and they were all wide eyes and obvious looks then. They like to worry, you think. They don’t seem to do much else, either. At least your nothing is a relaxing nothing. They tried to bring you a couple of books, once- actually, it was more like a whole library. You don’t think they heard the doctor’s order to rest because as FBI agents you have to hope that they understand basic instructions when they’re given-

 

( _ say thank you now _ ).

 

Although, now that you think about it, they were all there when she said it. You remember because the doctor asked you if you had any other injuries that they didn’t find. You just looked at her until she gave up and told you to rest anyways, but everyone was watching you. 

 

You don’t remember. They don’t seem to get that. 

 

You hated their eyes on you. You aren’t some superhuman machine. You can’t remember everything all the time; you aren’t resistant to the effects of drugs and mental trauma. Also, you’re supposed to be crazy now, so. Honestly, you don’t understand them at all. You’re damn lucky you don’t remember.

 

\-----

 

Nobody can look at you now without cringing. Do they wonder about what you could have been if you hadn’t ruined your life- if this hadn’t happened? If you hadn’t done what you did and ended up like this, if it hadn’t all been your fault?

 

That’s what it feels like every time they glance at you and skid their eyes right past you and stutter over their words and push all of these lies out of their throats. These flimsy little things that everybody knows are uselessly thin but uses all the same. They’re uncomfortable just being around you.

 

Sometimes you want to reassure them that you feel that way every time you see yourself, too.

 

But you think they’d get even quieter at that, not know what to say. You know your life’s bad when even profilers are shy to address it. They see the worst of humanity every day, acknowledge it, accept it- somewhat. But you- when they look at you they back out. They can't face it head on.

 

Maybe this was meant to happen so that you’d push everyone away. Maybe you were never meant to be happy.

 

But maybe you took it all away from yourself. God, you’re confused. You're confused all the time now and that makes them sad, too. Just, now, sometimes you hesitate at the starting line because you always feel like someone should be thinking for you.

 

\-----

 

Your doctor says that you’re ready to leave the hospital. Physically, at least. You shrug and agree that it’d be best for your recovery to have familiar surroundings. You don’t bother mentioning that you’re probably homeless by now. 

 

He didn’t ask. 

 

So then before you know it you have real clothes back on- not the ones they found you in, those are evidence- and you’re standing, ready to walk out the door. You don’t have any idea where you’re going but it’s better than the hospital room. And now that you think about it there was supposed to be a guard outside of your room, to protect you from the infamous 'Mr. Scratch', but apparently that isn’t happening. You wonder if they’ve just given up on you altogether.

 

And you're out, you're free. You're wandering and everything is fine.

 

But then you get a phone call on the new phone someone shoved into your hands at some point, and you think if you don’t answer it then somehow your freedom won’t be real so you do. If they took the guard away they probably aren't that concerned about your whereabouts anyway. 

 

So what happens is that they come and get you because you’re really off your game now and you must have read the situation wrong. And somebody yells at you for disappearing and you look at them and raise an eyebrow like ‘really, what’s the worst that could happen?’ and wait for them to realize that the worse already has happened. All that’s left now is the final, fatal blow. At this point it would be a mercy. 

 

They don’t end it there. They take you to one of their houses- the team members- and they try to figure out how to talk to you. And they fail, and they get frustrated, and they’re all worried and scared. And you don’t really know much but you do know that something is wrong with all of them. You aren’t the only one with fresh issues here, so why are yours the only ones that they insist need immediate attention?

 

You want to let it go. You want to move on. You tell them that you need to heal by yourself and they try to tell you that you aren’t healing, you’re avoiding your problems. You ask them if they’ve ever been kidnapped for- how long was I gone, exactly?- actually, guys, don’t answer that. They haven’t been through this. They don’t know a damn thing about what you need. You tell them so. And you tell them that you are leaving and moving on with your life and there is nothing they can do about that. 

 

You tell your old teammates that you are Spencer Reid and that you are capable of making a decision for yourself now, and you know that you’re allowed to do it. And you say you are leaving and moving on and trying to piece this person back together, the you that you guess you’ve always been. Spencer Reid needs a little work, but he doesn’t need any more memories. And their expressions soften and they are full of pity and condescension and regret, and someone says, “Spencer,” like they’re talking to a victim, because that’s all you are, now, it seems, to them, and you don’t even know who it is because you’re already out the door. 

 

You can deal with this yourself. For some reason it seems important that you do. You aren’t sure what it is exactly, but you’ve had this feeling that something they’re telling you just isn’t right. 

 

You make it all the way back to your old apartment building before you remember that you don’t have anywhere to go. You don’t even know what they’ve done with all of your things.

 

Recovery is a slow process. You’ll figure it out.

 

\---

 

And then you dream-

  
  


And you wake up and suddenly the world is bursting with adjectives and verbs and things that are in constant movement and always loud. It feels like you’ve been moving in slow motion looking out from underneath a bed sheet all this time and you can’t even remember what you’ve been doing these past days- weeks?- months? You have no clue. Because from the way everything is moving and happening around you and it all feels so much and so clear you can tell that things weren’t right before. They weren’t right at all.

 

And you shoot up out of your bed- because you just thought all of that in such a short period of time and you still hadn’t moved yet, this is definitely new- and you can feel the name on your tongue, dripping and viscous and bitter. Gideon. It was- oh, god, it was Gideon. 

 

And you need to get to work so you get your clothes on and brush your teeth, pat your hair down in the back and rush out the door. 

 

You burst into the BAU in a flurry of life, and it feels like you’ve just woken up, like maybe no time has passed at all since you were rescued even though it must have. And you rush over to where your team is and you stutter over their sudden surprised looks and tell them, “Gideon. It was- It wasn’t Mr. Scratch.” And you surprise yourself with that last sentence because you’d only been planning on saying the first. “You did say that, right? For some reason I guess you’d thought it was some ‘Mr. Scratch,’ but it’s Gideon. I don’t think you knew that?” You’re suddenly less confident. “Uh- anyways- I thought I should tell you that but- I can- uh- what’s the actual case today, I guess?” You try to save the situation because you realize you really don’t know what’s going on. You’ve been out of it for a long time.

 

“Spencer,” JJ starts, and she’s looking at you all strange.

 

And Morgan comes up on your other side and breathes out, “Reid,” and you’re definitely missing a few pieces of the puzzle.

 

\---

 

It turns out that you don’t really actually work for the FBI at the moment. You haven’t been to work since you were kidnapped, which, now that you think about it, makes a ton of sense. 

 

You explain to them that it kind of feels like you’ve woken up from a coma, and they explain everything that has happened, then, in greater detail. Hoping, probably, that you’ll figure it out and they’ll finally be able to close your case. Because they haven’t caught him, yet, Mr. Scratch. You remind them that you’re sure it was Gideon and they answer that they haven’t caught him, yet, either. You can tell they don’t believe you.

 

This is going to take some time. So you finish all of the talking and go home to work this whole thing out, and next time you’ll come in prepared with all of the information.

 

You know how it feels to want to ignore the truth but you can't anymore. They won't be able to ignore it for long, either.

**Author's Note:**

> so im really bad at chaptered fics... and if you want me to continue id really love some thoughts. literally anything. if you tell me it sucks that would probably still motivate me to write. but hopefully you don't think that?


End file.
